Ann was still reeling.
Not the kind of pain that announces itself loudly, but the quiet, gnawing kind that sits in the chest and presses inward until breathing feels like work. The kind of pain that does not scream, yet refuses to leave. The kind that rearranges your insides and then pretends nothing happened.
Her breakup with Alex was recent, too recent for the wound to have even begun forming a scar. Everything still felt raw, like skin exposed after a burn. Her world, the one she had carefully painted with dreams, hopes, and promises whispered in the dark, was collapsing slowly, deliberately, brick by brick. And the worst part wasn't the collapse itself; it was the silence that followed. The silence after love walks out and forgets to close the door behind it.
Ann sat alone in her apartment, the space suddenly too large for one heart and too small for her pain. The walls, once witnesses to laughter and late-night calls, now stared back at her blankly, as though even they had chosen not to understand. The air was heavy. Not with humidity, but with memories that refused to dissolve.
She needed to talk to someone.
Not because words would magically fix anything, but because pain grows teeth when it is left alone. She needed someone who could sit beside her pain without trying to tame it. Someone who would understand the language of heartbreak without needing subtitles.
So she called Mia.
Mia was not just her friend; she was her constant. Her fast and bosom friend, the kind that knows your silences as much as your laughter. They were in the same department, Architecture, bonded not just by courses and deadlines but by shared exhaustion, shared dreams, shared survival. Mia had seen Ann at her best and at her most uncertain. If anyone could sit in the ruins with her, it was Mia.
When Mia arrived at Ann's apartment, the first thing she noticed was not the mess, because heartbreak does not always scatter things physically. Sometimes it is neat. Sometimes it leaves everything in place while it rearranges you internally.
Ann looked… wrong.
Not ugly. Not disheveled. Just wrong. Like a beautiful painting hung crookedly on a wall. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, carrying the weight of unshed tears and already shed ones. Her posture sagged as though gravity had increased around her. She was there, but not fully present.
"Ann," Mia called softly, closing the door behind her.
No response.
Mia stepped closer, her heart tightening. "What's wrong?"
Ann opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. No explanation. No story. Just air. Her throat closed, her lips trembled, and instead of words, she reached for her phone. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she handed it to Mia, as though passing over something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
Mia's fingers wrapped around the phone. She looked down.
And there it was.
The breakup message.
Short. Cold. Efficient. The kind of message that ends something you gave your whole chest to with the emotional weight of a grocery list. No apology worth keeping. No explanation that healed. Just finality wrapped in digital ink.
Mia's heart sank.
Alex.
They had all thought Alex was a good person.
Mia felt the sting not just for Ann, but for the betrayal of expectation. The way people sometimes look like homes until you realize they were only shelters in bad weather. Alex had worn goodness well. Too well. And now here was the evidence, quiet, undeniable, cruel in its simplicity.
Mia looked up at Ann, whose tears had begun to fall freely now, her face contorted with grief she could no longer hold back. Mia moved closer and pulled her into an embrace, holding her as though she could physically keep her from breaking apart.
Ann sobbed into her shoulder, her body shaking, her breath uneven. This was not just sadness. This was mourning. Mourning the version of the future she had already lived in her head.
"He is my first love," Ann whispered between sobs, her voice cracking like thin ice. 😭
The words fell heavy, saturated with meaning. First love, the one that teaches you hope and pain in the same lesson. The one that carves its name into you and leaves a mark no matter how gently it exits.
Mia tightened her hold. "It'll be well," she assured her, though her own chest ached as she said it. Some comforts are not promises; they are anchors. Words thrown into the storm just to keep someone from drifting too far.
She stayed with Ann as the tears came and went in waves. There was no rush. Healing, even in its earliest form, does not like to be hurried.
After a while, when the sobs had softened into sniffles and the room no longer felt like it was drowning, Mia gently pulled back and looked at her friend.
"Ann," she said carefully, "we have a final paper to prepare for."
Ann frowned faintly, as though remembering something distant and unimportant. Life had not stopped for heartbreak. Deadlines were still coming. The world was still moving at its cruel, unbothered pace.
"I know you don't feel like it," Mia continued, "but let's go to the library. Let's at least try."
Ann hesitated. Her heart wanted stillness, isolation, darkness. But some part of her, the disciplined part, the part shaped by years of striving, knew that staying would only deepen the hole.
Reluctantly, she agreed.
They stepped out together, leaving the apartment behind. Ann locked the door, feeling as though she was locking in her pain as well, though she knew heartbreak did not respect doors.
As they walked, the narrator's voice, soft, reflective, lingered on Ann.
To describe Ann was to describe a contradiction of strength and softness. At nineteen, she carried a beauty that did not beg for attention yet commanded it effortlessly. She was tall, her height lending her a quiet elegance that turned heads without effort. Her skin was fair, smooth like carefully polished marble kissed by light. She was plump, endowed, her curves full and unapologetic, the kind that made fabric sit differently, the kind that drew admiration even from those who pretended not to notice.
Her face, ah, her face. Symmetrical in the way artists dream of. Lips naturally full, eyes expressive, capable of holding laughter and sorrow with equal depth. When she smiled, it felt like warmth; when she was silent, it felt like gravity. Ann was beautiful in the way that did not need permission.
And she knew what she wanted.
Her standards were high, unapologetically so. She wasn't ready to lower them, not for loneliness, not for fear. One of the major reasons she had fallen for Alex was because, on the surface, he fit the image she had carefully curated in her mind. Alex was built, muscular, his presence commanding. He was eloquent, his words smooth, persuasive, often intoxicating. Handsome in a way that turned admiration into temptation. Creative, someone who knew how to make moments feel special.
But beneath the charm was recklessness.
Alex was careless with women. Promiscuous. A wanderer who mistook attention for affection and desire for depth. Ann had believed she could change him. Love has a way of convincing people they are exceptions. Alex had told her she would change him. He had promised. And she had believed him, because hope often sounds like truth when spoken by someone you love.
But it was all a lie.
One cannot change a lover, Ann told herself now, the realization bitter and sharp. Love is not rehabilitation. You cannot love someone into becoming who they are not ready to be.
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the surroundings as they approached the library. Her steps were mechanical, her mind replaying moments she wished she could unsee.
That was when it happened.
A guy, someone who had been following Ann from her apartment had noticed her long before this moment. He had admired her beauty quietly, from a distance, carrying his interest like a secret he was unsure how to confess. Seeing her now, vulnerable yet still radiant, he gathered what courage he could muster.
"Hey, beauty," he called out, his voice tentative but hopeful. "Can we have a chat?"
Ann didn't stop.
She didn't even turn around.
She hissed softly, the sound sharp with irritation and exhaustion, and continued walking toward the library. Not today. Not now. Not ever, maybe. Her heart was bruised, and even admiration felt invasive.
Mia glanced back briefly, then returned her attention to Ann, matching her pace without comment.
Finally, they reached the library.
The doors opened, swallowing them into quiet, into rows of books and the familiar scent of paper and concentration. They found a place and settled down, Ann slowly, carefully, as though even sitting required effort.
And there, in the stillness of the library, the episode paused.