Interlude: His Side of the Story — The Boy Who Was Left Behind
He was the kind of boy who lit up every room he walked into.
People said he was born under a lucky star—top grades, natural charm, a smile that made teachers proud and students envious. The school called him a genius. His parents pinned all their dreams on his shoulders. Universities scouted him before he even turned sixteen. A golden future, they said.
But none of it mattered to him as much as she did.
Rashely.
The quiet girl who never raised her hand in class but always knew the answers. The girl with paint smudges on her sleeves and headphones always tucked under her collar. The girl who smiled like the sun, but only when she thought no one was looking.
He noticed. From the very beginning.
He liked the way her eyes lit up when she talked about books. The way she bit her lip when thinking too hard. The way she hugged her sketchpad like it held her whole world.
She was the only thing in his life that wasn't planned.
Loving her was effortless.
They studied together after class. Shared warm drinks on cold days. He would press his forehead against hers and whisper, "I'll take you with me—wherever I go."
She would smile faintly, eyes fluttering, but never answered.
Then, one day, everything changed.
She broke up with him.
No warning. No fight. Just a message after school.
"Let's break up. I don't love you anymore."
He thought it was a joke.
He waited at their usual spot for hours, phone clutched tight. She never came.
The next few weeks were a blur of confusion. She wouldn't look at him. Wouldn't answer his calls. Wouldn't even flinch when he called her name in the hallway.
She had disappeared, yet was still right there.
His grades dropped for the first time in years. His hands trembled during exams. People whispered. His parents frowned.
But he didn't care.
All he wanted was to understand why.
Then, one day—he found out.
A teacher whispered something behind closed doors. A student mentioned it in passing. A classmate dropped a cruel comment.
Pregnant.
She had been pregnant.
His world tilted.
He stormed through the streets in the pouring rain, hair plastered to his forehead, hands clenched. Found her house. Banged on the door until his knuckles bled.
Her father opened it.
"You need to leave her alone," he said coldly. "She's already caused enough trouble."
"I—was it mine?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Was it… mine?"
The man didn't answer.
The door slammed shut.
He never saw her again.
Not until the news came, like a dagger between the ribs.
Girl jumps from bridge. Body recovered. Sixteen. No foul play suspected.
He vomited the moment he read the headline.
Rashely was gone.
And he had never told her that he still loved her. That he never stopped. That he would have given up everything—his scholarships, his future, even his parents' approval—just to be by her side.
She had taken that choice away from him.
He visited the bridge once, in the early dawn. The wind was cold, the river still. He stood there for hours, imagining her final thoughts.
Did she cry?
Did she regret?
Did she… still love him?
He never knew.
He kept her sketchpad. It was all he had left. Page after page of drawings—of him. Smiling. Sleeping. Laughing. One page had only words.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."
He didn't become a scientist.
He didn't go to MIT.
He stayed in the city and slowly disappeared from the world that once celebrated him.
But every year, on the same day, at the same bridge, he left a bouquet of white lilies and a drawing of two hands reaching for each other—but never touching.