I didn't remember unlocking the door.
I just remember Isla being there.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't say what happened or are you okay?
She just stepped inside, wrapped her arms around me, and held me like a baby.
She already knew.
Then she took my phone from my hand, turned off the notifications, and set it face down on the counter.
"You don't need to see his face light up your screen right now," she said, voice soft but steady.
I clutched the sleeve of my hoodie like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My lips trembled. "I thought I was special to him. I did." I said to her
"You were," she said without hesitation. "You are. His inability to hold that doesn't erase the fact that you gave something real, something special."
The sob hit before I could stop it — sharp, sudden, ugly.
"I feel so stupid."
Isla pulled me closer, tighter. "You're not stupid. You're brave. You loved with your whole heart. That's rare."
We stayed like that for a while — me unraveling, her anchoring me.
Later, we sat on the floor, surrounded by takeout containers and a battlefield of used tissues. The kind of mess that only heartbreak can make feel sacred.
Isla leaned her head against the wall and said, "He might show up again. They always do. But you have to decide if he's still worth the ache."
I didn't answer.
I just stared at the ceiling, eyes swollen, chest hollow.
But somewhere in the quiet, I felt it — not healing, not yet.
But the beginning of something that might one day feel like peace.
Elian didn't know.
He never asked, and I never told.
And so, the grief lived inside me quietly — like a locked drawer no one had the key to.
The truth is, I didn't want him to know.
Not because I wanted to protect him.
But because deep down, I knew he wouldn't have stayed.
And I needed him to stay a little longer — even if only in memory.
We were still… whatever we were.
He still came over some nights. Still messaged me sweet nothings at 2 a.m., still kissed the inside of my wrist like it meant something. Sometimes I caught him staring at me like he was trying to memorize my face. I wish he had tried harder.
But things had shifted — subtly, then all at once.
He didn't notice the way I stopped asking if he'd eaten.
Didn't notice that I no longer told him about my dreams.
Didn't see that I started wearing darker clothes to work, stopped curling my hair, and stopped waiting for his calls.
Maybe he noticed.
Maybe he didn't know how to say anything.
Maybe he thought I was just tired.
And maybe I was.
Tired of loving him in a way that never had room to grow.
Jace was gentler these days. He didn't try to flirt anymore. He Cared.
He just stayed close. Stayed kind.
He talked to me like nothing had broken in me.
And in return, I gave him the parts of me I still had left to give: a laugh here, a smile there. Not love. Just quiet gratitude.
Elian noticed.
One lunch break, he caught me talking with Jace in the pantry — laughing over some silly joke. His eyes stayed on me longer than necessary. But again, no words.
Later, back at my desk, I got a message.
Elian:
Can we talk?
I stared at it for a moment before typing:
Me:
Now?
Elian:
Fire exit. 10 mins.
He was already there when I arrived. Leaning on the railing, arms crossed. The air smelled like rust and sky.
"I feel like I'm losing you," he said, eyes not meeting mine.
"You can't lose something you never had," I said quietly.
That got him.
He looked up.
"I thought we were okay."
"We are," I said. "At least… I've accepted what this is."
He exhaled, frustrated. "Is this about Jace?"
"No," I said. "This is about me."
I sat down on the steps, hugging my knees. He stayed standing.
"Do you want to leave?" he asked.
I shook my head. "If I wanted to leave, I would've left a long time ago."
Silence settled between us like a heavy coat.
He finally sat beside me, elbows on his knees, staring ahead.
"I never meant to hurt you."
"I know."
"I just… I'm still figuring things out. Still not ready."
I nodded.
"I'm not asking you to be," I said. "I'm just… learning how to hold less."
That night, he stayed over.
It felt softer — not passionate, but tender.
He held me tighter. Kissed me slower. Said things like, "Don't go quiet on me," and "I still want you here."
I wanted to ask him, "Why?"
But I didn't.
Instead, I whispered back, "I'm here."
Even though part of me was already leaving.
A few days later, we had lunch at a quiet ramen place near the office. It almost felt like a real date — like maybe we were normal.
Until his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it quickly. Too quickly. Face unreadable.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just work."
But he didn't touch his noodles again.
Later, in the car, I noticed a small hickey on his neck — not mine.
I didn't say anything.
Just stared out the window and hummed along to a song I didn't recognize.
That night, I cried again in the shower.
Not because of the hickey.
But because I finally realized something:
I had started pretending, too.
Pretending I didn't want more.
Pretending this was enough.
Pretending I wasn't breaking.
At the office, things kept moving.
Deadlines. Meetings. Pretending.
Jace caught me alone in the hallway one afternoon and offered me a coffee.
"You don't look okay," he said softly.
"I will be," I said.
"I hope he's worth all the pieces of yourself you keep giving."
I smiled faintly. "He was… once."
Jace didn't say anything more. Just handed me the coffee.
Vanilla sweet cream cold brew — my favorite.
Elian passed us on the way to the meeting room.
He didn't say a word.
But his jaw was tight the entire presentation.
I told myself I'd leave eventually.
But something in me still stayed — not because I believed in him,
but because I was still trying to believe in love at all.
And even if he didn't love me the way I needed,
I wanted to remember what it felt like to be close to someone,
even if they were already drifting away.
The dream came again that night.
But this time, the man didn't dance with me.
He just looked at me with tired eyes and said softly:
"You found me, finally. But not yet. Not this time."
I woke up with a tear running down my cheek.
And for once, I didn't reach for my phone.
I went to Lucia the next morning.
Sleep had been a shallow thing — more like drifting through echoes than rest. The dream clung to me, thick and quiet, like a fog that refused to lift. I needed someone who wouldn't ask me to explain it. I needed someone who understood the weight of silence.
Lucia did.
Her apartment smelled like sage and something older. She handed me a mug without asking what I needed. I didn't know anyway.
"I don't understand," I said, gripping the mug like it might hold me together. "In the dream, he was standing by a door. He didn't speak. Just looked at me, like he wanted to — but couldn't."
Lucia sat across from me, thumbing through a deck of old tarot cards she didn't read from anymore. She didn't lay them out. Just touched them like a memory.
"He's not ready to open that door," she said. "Not in this life. Not yet."
I hesitated. "He said something, though. Just before I woke up."
Lucia looked up, waiting.
I swallowed. "He said, 'You found me, finally. But not yet. Not this time.'"
Lucia's expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted — as the room had exhaled.
"Then he remembers too," she said softly.
I frowned. "Then why let me feel all of this?"
Lucia's eyes softened. "Because you're not here to wait for him. You're here to remember yourself, too."
She paused, then added, "Love like that... it returns, yes. But it doesn't always stay. Not unless both are willing."
The words settled between us like dust. I stared into my mug, wondering how many lifetimes we'd been circling the same door — and how many more it would take before we both turned the key.