The graduation ceremony ended on a note of happiness and quiet triumph for Ann's parents.
It was the kind of joy that didn't need to shout. The kind that sat gently in the chest and warmed the heart, like the afterglow of a candle long after the flame had been blown out. The University of Illinois lawn shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, filled with gowns, caps, laughter, and the rustle of dreams stepping into adulthood.
Ann's parents stood close together, smiling so hard their cheeks ached. Years of sacrifices, late-night prayers, unspoken worries, tuition struggles, silent hopes, had all crystallized into this single day. Their daughter had done it. She had crossed the bridge.
Cameras clicked endlessly.
Beautiful pictures were taken, Ann standing between her parents, her cap tilted slightly to the side, her smile wide but reserved. Her father held her shoulder like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. Her mother kept adjusting Ann's gown, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves, as if the fabric itself carried the weight of pride.
Mia, glowing and loud as ever, dragged Ann aside for pictures too. She posed dramatically, throwing peace signs, laughing freely, snapping photo after photo with her friend. The sun kissed their faces as if blessing them both.
But beneath Ann's smile, beneath the practiced laughter, something was fractured.
The joy didn't sink all the way in.
Because even as the applause echoed, even as congratulations rained down like confetti, Ann's heart was elsewhere, caught in the quiet aftermath of a goodbye that hadn't healed.
After graduation, Ann didn't pack her luggage away from the University of Illinois.
Not immediately.
While others rushed to box memories into suitcases, to strip their dorms bare and head toward the next chapter, Ann lingered. She stayed back to complete her clearance, to sign documents, return materials, and close academic loops that demanded her physical presence.
But truthfully, it wasn't just paperwork holding her back.
She was still reeling from the pain of her breakup with Alex.
That pain didn't scream. It sat heavy. It moved slowly. It followed her from corridor to corridor, from room to room, like a shadow that refused to detach. Every familiar corner of the campus whispered his name. Every bench, every pathway, every late-night silence carried echoes of what had once been.
She moved through her days mechanically.
Sign here. Submit that. Return this.
But inside, she was unraveling thread by thread.
Then came Wednesday night.
The air was cool, gentle, deceptively calm, one of those nights that felt too peaceful for the storm raging inside her. Ann had gone to the university restaurant to buy something small to eat. Nothing special. Just food to quiet a body that still functioned even when the heart refused to.
She walked back toward her lodge afterward, the plastic bag swinging lightly in her hand, her thoughts scattered and tired.
And then,
She saw him.
Alex.
He was sitting not too far away, guitar resting against his chest. The same guitar. The one she had bought for him back when love still felt permanent, back when promises felt unbreakable.
Her steps slowed without her permission.
He was playing.
His fingers moved smoothly across the strings, producing a sound that was warm, soft, and achingly familiar. Sonorous. Alive. The kind of music that wrapped itself around the soul and squeezed gently.
Beside him was the girl.
The "better" girl.
They were laughing. Leaning into each other. Their happiness was effortless, unguarded, cruel in its simplicity. Alex played as if the world had never cracked, as if love had never bruised anyone.
For a brief, devastating moment, Ann saw herself in that girl.
She remembered how he used to play for her. How she would sit cross-legged on the floor, chin resting in her palms, watching him like he was the only thing that mattered. How the music once belonged to her.
Her chest tightened.
Her vision blurred.
She didn't approach them.
She didn't confront him.
She didn't cry out or make her presence known.
She turned quietly and walked away.
Each step back to her lodge felt heavier than the last, like her feet were dragging through wet cement. The door closed behind her, sealing the silence in.
And then she broke.
She cried.
Not soft tears. Not polite ones.
She cried the way people cry when something has finally shattered beyond repair. Her shoulders shook violently. Her breath came in broken gasps. The sound tore out of her chest like it had been waiting too long to escape.
She cried for the memories.
She cried for the love she lost.
She cried for herself.
She missed Alex.
And now, standing on the cold floor of her lodge, the truth settled painfully into place. He hadn't left because love died naturally. He left because he found someone he thought was better.
That realization burned.
But somewhere between the sobs, something else formed.
Resolve.
If he had moved on… then so would she.
She wiped her face, her hands trembling as she picked up her phone. She opened her gallery. One by one, she deleted the pictures. Smiling faces. Random selfies. Late-night snapshots. Videos filled with laughter she could no longer bear to hear.
She deleted the chats.
Every "I miss you."
Every "I love you."
Every memory preserved in text.
Each deletion hurt like tearing flesh, but she didn't stop.
She erased him from her digital world, knowing it was the first step to reclaiming her emotional one.
That night, she decided she would make the best version of herself—not for him, but for herself. The kind of woman who survives heartbreak and still stands tall.
A Dean Lewis concert was about to hold in New York.
She saw it as a sign.
Music had always been her refuge. And that night, she needed something to hold her together.
She informed her parents that she would return to Washington after finishing her academic obligations. They understood. They always did. Her brother and her parents had already flown back, leaving her to close this chapter alone.
The night of the concert came.
Ann dressed simply—nothing flashy, nothing heavy. Just herself, stripped of expectations. She made her way to Madison Square Garden, the city alive around her, neon lights reflecting off streets soaked in sound and motion.
Inside the venue, the atmosphere pulsed with anticipation.
Dean Lewis came on stage ten minutes after the scheduled time.
The lights dimmed.
A soft keyboard piano began to play, slow and deliberate, as if preparing the audience's hearts for what was coming. Then Dean Lewis stepped forward, guitar in hand, walking to the microphone.
And he sang.
"How do I say goodbye,
To someone who's been with me for my whole damn life…"
The words hit Ann like a tidal wave.
Her chest constricted instantly. Memories of Alex surged forward—uninvited, relentless. Their first conversations. Their laughter. Their shared silence. The love that once felt eternal.
Tears streamed down her face as she sang along, joining the crowd, her voice breaking but persistent. She cried openly, freely, the way grief demands to be expressed.
She chanted the lyrics with trembling lips, her heart unraveling with every note.
And in the midst of the tears, she made a vow.
This would be the last time.
The last tear.
The last ache.
The final goodbye.
As the concert ended, something inside her settled. The chaos softened. The storm eased.
She walked out calmer.
Lighter.
As if the music had reset her soul.
For the first time since the breakup, she felt ready—enot healed, but healing. Ready to move forward. Ready to let go.
And for the first time in a long time… Ann believed she would be okay