Chapter 2: The Last Night at Maple Heights

The day I decided to let Marcus go was just an ordinary day.

The sky outside was your basic gray-blue, a hint of sunlight trying to crawl in between the clouds, but nothing special. The world just spun on, indifferent. I sat at the dining table where I was used to eating alone, quietly finishing my breakfast. The eggs were rubbery and the toast had gone cold—classic Monday.

My eggs were a little overcooked—again. There was a half-empty mug of coffee, lukewarm and forgotten, a newspaper still folded from three days ago. The silence was only broken by the faint clink of my fork against the plate.

The TV was on twenty-four hours a day, cycling through all sorts of programs. It had become the only sound in the house.

I’d started leaving it on for company. Cooking shows, infomercials, old reruns of sitcoms—anything to fill the emptiness. Sometimes, when the local weather came on, I’d even talk back to the meteorologist. It was better than nothing.

Marcus never needed voice-overs.

So when that hit drama starring him and Lily Grant started re-airing during summer break, I instantly recognized his voice.

Low and gentle, like a cello.

His voice was one of those things that could stop you in your tracks—a kind of velvet sound, warm and deep, the kind you’d expect to hear over a candlelit dinner or in a late-night radio dedication. Even now, it caught me off guard, tugging at some stubborn part of me.

He and Lily met and fell in love because of this drama.

I had never watched it before.

But today, maybe I was truly bored, maybe I had really let go.

For the first time, I sat on the couch, bought a streaming membership, and watched the drama seriously.

The cushions still had the dent from his favorite spot. I wrapped myself in an old fleece blanket and tried to convince myself I was just curious. But as the credits rolled, I realized I wasn’t fooling anyone—not even myself.

And finally, I understood why the shippers for the two of them were still going strong after all these years.

Turns out, they really are a perfect match.

Honestly, it’s pretty pathetic.

I’ve almost worn out the behind-the-scenes clips from this show.

The chemistry, the protection, the affection between Marcus and Lily were displayed openly to me through my phone.

It seems he loves people using the same template.

The same gentle gaze, the same jealous words, the same possessive actions.

To the me back then, none of this was special.

But to the me now, it’s like sand slipping through my fingers.

The tighter I grip, the less remains.

So sweet.

I stared intently at the handsome man and beautiful woman on the screen, sighing to myself.

Their on-screen kisses looked so real I could almost smell the faint trace of his cologne, hear Lily’s laughter echo off the walls. It was bittersweet—watching someone you used to love fall for someone else, even if it was just acting.

This drama has thirty episodes, each forty minutes long. Thirty episodes—that’s 1,200 minutes, twenty hours.

Not long, not short.

I watched it straight through, all day and night. Somewhere between episode twelve and a box of stale Cheez-Its, I realized I was rooting for them. For real.

I didn’t bother changing out of my sweats. The world outside faded away, replaced by a flickering blue glow and the soundtrack of heartbreak and hope. I ordered pizza and never even answered the door; left it cooling on the stoop for the delivery guy to wonder about.

Until my eyes were bloodshot.

Until night fell and the world was completely silent.

Until the clock struck three in the morning.

The male and female leads finally overcame all obstacles and embraced tightly.

A happy ending.

That’s nice.

I was genuinely happy for them, the corners of my mouth curving gently upward.

The eyes that had cried for the protagonists’ tortured love were now dry.

I realized, too late, that it was long past time to sleep.

The street outside was still, streetlights casting pale shadows through the blinds. My skin felt prickly with exhaustion, but my mind raced, replaying every scene, every word.

Fortunately, it’s all over now.

I stood up and walked toward the bedroom.

I didn’t turn off the TV.

Because I’m actually quite afraid of silence—especially the kind that makes it feel like I’m the only one left alive in the world.

Even the refrigerator’s hum sounded louder at night. Sometimes I’d talk to myself, just to remind myself I still existed, but tonight, I let the TV do the talking.

The house, which fans had mocked me for not being able to afford without Marcus, had for a long time echoed only with my footsteps.

So when I heard a faint noise at the door, I thought it was a thief.

But this is a luxury home in Maple Heights. The neighborhood smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and someone’s overzealous sprinklers. Every mailbox had a tiny American flag sticker left over from the Fourth. The kind of place with a neighborhood watch, freshly mowed lawns, and porch lights that never go out. Not the sort of place you expect trouble.

So—

It was Marcus Langley, whom I hadn’t seen in so long.