The café smells like coffee and something sweet I cannot quite place. Cinnamon, maybe. Or nostalgia. Memories of the beautiful past we left behind.
Lena is already there.
Of course she is. I asked her to come
She sits by the window, hands wrapped around a mug she has not touched. Her hair is pulled back loosely, the way she used to do when she was tired or pretending not to care. She looks thinner. Quieter. Like a version of herself that has been edited too many times.
She looks up when I walk in.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then she smiles. Soft. Careful. Like she is approaching a wild animal.
"Ash."
"Lena."
I sit across from her. The chair scrapes against the floor, louder than it should be. Everything feels too loud.
A waiter comes by. I order a coffee I do not want. Lena doesn't add anything. She just watches me, like she is memorizing my face.
"How have you been?" she asks.
There it is. The most dangerous question in the world.
"I am okay," I say.
Not a lie. Not the truth either.
She nods slowly, like she expected that answer.
"I heard you are writing again."
"Yeah."
"That is good." She hesitates. "You always write when things get heavy. And…you're a really gifted writer. You shouldn't waste it away."
I almost laugh. Almost.
Around us, life keeps going. Cups clink. Someone laughs too loudly at a nearby table. The world refuses to pause for us.
I do not accuse her. I promised myself I would not.
So I ask instead.
"Did you talk to anyone at the college about me?"
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
"I was worried," she says, too quickly. "You have been drinking more. You seemed unstable. I thought someone should keep an eye on you."
"An eye," I repeat.
She flinches. Just slightly.
"Ash..."
"I am not angry," I say, and that surprises me. "I just need to understand."
She exhales, shoulders sagging. "You always do this. You stay calm and suddenly I feel like the bad guy."
"I am not trying to."
"I know." She looks down. "I just…care. And you never let anyone help you."
I let the silence sit.
Then I say the thing I have carried for years like a shard in my pocket. Maybe this will be the end of it.
"I went to see Jason Marek."
Her head snaps up. It took her a moment to remember who Jason Marek is.
"What?"
"The fortune teller," I say. "The one you told me about when we were sixteen."
The color drains from her face.
"You remember," she whispers.
"I remember everything," I say. "He told me you would die before twenty-five. I know you know that already. What you don't is, that I would be the reason." I pause for a second, then make it clearer, "You'll die because of me."
The silence thickens.
"That is why I tried to break up with you at that time," I continued. "Not because I stopped loving you. Because I thought leaving would save you." I sighed. "But I couldn't. I couldn't stay away from you."
She stares at me like she does not recognize me.
"And you never told me?" she asks quietly.
"I was a kid," I say. "And I was terrified."
She leans back, a strange, hollow smile touching her lips.
"You know what scares me?" she says. "That you thought my life was something you had to manage."
"I thought I was protecting you."
"I do not care if I die, Ash."
The words land wrong. Like glass on concrete.
"What?"
She meets my eyes. "If that is the price of loving you, then fine."
My chest tightens.
"You don't love me." I say. "No, not anymore."
She shrugs. "Maybe I am just tired."
I want to reach across the table. Shake her. Hold her. Something.
Instead, I ask, "What about Samuel?"
Her jaw tightens. Like she was about to say something, but held back.
"And your father?" I add. "Nate? You don't talk about him at all. Is everything fine between you two?"
She looks out the window. "Why does it matter?"
Because it always mattered. Because it still does.
But I didn't say that.
I see it then.
She doesn't trust me. Not with the truth. Not with herself.
"Being around you is killing me," I say softly.
Her eyes widen.
"I don't mean physically," I add. "I mean I cannot breathe. I keep shrinking myself just to keep you steady."
Her eyes fill, but no tears fall.
"If you care about me at all," I say, my voice barely holding, "you need to leave me alone."
She nods once.
"I am sorry," she says. I see unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "I really am."
She hesitates. Tries to calm her breathing. Seems like she didn't want to break down crying in front of me. Then, quietly, "I hope Alice makes you happy."
Something breaks.
Not loudly.
She stands, picks up her bag, pauses like she might say more.
She doesn't.
The bell above the door rings cheerfully as she leaves.
I stay long after my coffee arrives.
It goes cold.
So do I.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The cold air outside hits my face immediately.
The street looks exactly the same. Cars pass. Someone laughs nearby. Life keeps going.
I take two steps.
Then I feel it.
That pressure between my shoulders. The instinct that says do not turn around.
I turn around.
Samuel stands across the street.
He is not hiding. Hands in his coat pockets. Watching the café entrance like he has been there a while.
Our eyes meet.
Nothing happens.
No smirk. No surprise.
He must have seen her leave. Must have seen me follow, alone.
So he knows something.
I do not confront him.
I look away, adjust my bag, and start walking.
I do not rush. I count my steps like it matters.
I do not look back.
Still, the feeling follows me. Thin. Patient.
The past does not chase.
It just watches.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I don't remember getting home.
I remember the lock clicking. The light flickering. Sitting on the edge of my bed with my shoes still on, staring at the floor.
Nothing explains anything.
The apartment is quiet. Alice is asleep. Josh is not home yet. The walls feel thinner when everyone else is unconscious.
I do not break down.
I just sit.
My chest feels hollow. Not sharp. Just empty. I wait for the pain to spike.
It does not.
That scares me.
I think about Lena saying she did not care if she died. The calm certainty of it. I replay it again and again.
It never changes.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
I think about sixteen-year-old me, standing in Jason Marek's shop, pretending I was not shaking. I thought love meant protection. That leaving would save her.
I was wrong.
I did not save her.
I only delayed the damage.
My throat tightens slowly. Tears come quietly, soaking into the pillow. I do not sob. I just let go.
I cry for what I lost.
For what I could not fix.
For the boy who thought love was something you could outsmart.
I cannot go back.
Even if she came back, it would not matter.
This is not a breakup.
This is grief.
Real grief. The kind that does not negotiate.
When the crying fades, it is not because I feel better. I am just empty.
I stare at the dark ceiling.
Loving her was the truest thing I ever did.
Letting her go was the first thing I did for myself.
It does not comfort me.
But it feels final.
And final does not mean failure.
It just means something ended.
I turn onto my side and let the quiet take me.
Tomorrow will come.
Tonight, I mourn.