Page 82 of Back to You
I turned my head before I could look too long, before the ache in my chest could grow sharp enough to cut. But I still saw him….not really, but for a second, I swore I did.
A familiar broad set of shoulders, dark hair, a profile that looked just enough like his to make my breath hitch, and then I blinked, and he was gone…Just like always.
Inside my house, the silence wasn’t peaceful, it was suffocating. The heater kicked on, filling the space with warm air, but I still felt cold.
I still reached for his hoodie every night, draping it over my shoulders, inhaling the fading scent of him like I could pull him closer.
I still left the bathroom light on, a habit from when he used to get up before me, when I’d groggily stumble inside and he’d already have my toothbrush ready with a smirk and a kiss.
I still hadn’t deleted his messages, or thrown away the half-empty bottle of cologne he used to leave on my dresser, or moved the cup he’d left on my nightstand weeks ago, his fingerprints still faint against the glass. I know I should let go, and that I should move forward.
But every piece of him still existed in this house, in me, and I didn’t know how to live without it.
The nights were the worst. The moments between laying down and falling asleep stretched too long, stretched too empty, stretched too goddamn quiet.
The space where he used to sleep was untouched, like some pathetic part of me thought he might come back. I flipped over onto my side, burying my face into the pillow, but the ache in my chest only grew heavier.
I reached blindly toward the nightstand, grabbing my phone before my mind could stop me. I stared at his name, and hovered my finger over it…I could just call, hear his voice one last time, just… say something, anything.
My thumb brushed against the screen, my pulse thudding in my ears, but then reality slammed into me. If I called, what would I say? Would he even pick up? Would he even want to hear my voice after everything I’d done?
My vision blurred, my throat tightening, my chest squeezing like a vice, then, before I could let my heart get ahead of me, Iturned off my phone and threw it onto the nightstand. I curled in on myself, blinking against the burn in my eyes, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
I had done the right thing; that’s what I told myself. That’s what I repeated like a mantra every morning when I woke up alone. Every night when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the silence press down on me.
I had protected myself, I had made the logical choice. So then why did I feel like I was unraveling? Why did everything feel muted, like the world had dimmed just enough for me to notice that something was missing…That he was missing?
Why did I keep waiting for this ache to pass, for my heart to settle, for time to do what everyone swore it would? I thought letting go would mean moving forward, but I had only been standing in place, waiting for something to change, for something to shift, for something to make me believe that I had made the right choice.
But there weren’t any changes, there weren't any shifts…The world kept turning, but I stayed right here. Stuck. I had let him go. It was the right thing to do.
Then why did it feel like I had done the worst thing imaginable? I had broken something that could never be put back together. I had broken him. I had broken myself.
He had forgiven me once before. Somehow, despite everything, he had let me back in.
But twice? No one gets forgiven twice.
CHAPTER 38
Sebastian
Ihold on too long, fight too hard for things I should’ve learned to release. I’m not built for indifference, I’m not built for loss.
But this? This is something else entirely. This isn’t just holding on too long. This is drowning. This is waking up every morning with the crushing weight of her absence pressing against my ribs before I even open my eyes.
This is rolling over to a cold pillow, to empty sheets that haven’t been touched by her warmth in weeks.
This is gripping those sheets in my fists, burying my face in the fabric because it still carries the faintest trace of her scent. If I close my eyes and breathe deep enough, for just a second, I can almost convince myself she’s still here…almost. Then reality sinks its claws in, and I’m left staring at the ceiling, waiting for the ache in my chest to loosen its grip. It never does.
This is standing in my kitchen, staring at two coffee mugs, one for me, one for her, because I still reach for both, every single morning. Every single morning I pick up hers without thinking, my body betraying me, my hands acting on instinct before my mind catches up.
Every single morning I curse under my breath, shove it back into the cabinet like it’s something I should’ve let go of by now. But I never do, because I don’t want to.
This is getting in my car, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, because her scent still lingers in the passenger seat, faint, fading…fading just like she did.
No matter how hard I try to hold on, no matter how many times I inhale too sharply, hoping to catch more of it, I can’t do anything to stop it from disappearing, just like I couldn’t stop her.
I can’t even be angry, even though I really want to be. I want to hate her for leaving, for shutting me out, for making me believe we were something solid and unshakable, only to tear it down.
