Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Snow

The reunion ended early. I stood outside in the cold, wrapped tight in my coat, exhaling a cloud of warm breath. “He has a fiancée now.” The words felt strange on my tongue.

The night air bit at my cheeks, the city quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. I tugged my coat tighter, wishing I’d worn another layer. My breath fogged in the air, swirling around me like ghosts of words left unsaid.

There was a pause on the other end. I could almost hear Casey thinking.

I could hear Casey’s breathing, the faint clatter of her spoon against a mug. She was waiting for me to say more, but I had nothing left.

“He has a fiancée?” Casey practically shrieked, disbelief ringing in her voice.

Her disbelief was almost comical, her voice jumping an octave. I pictured her eyebrows shooting up, mouth open in shock.

“Yeah.”

I didn’t trust myself to say more. The word hung in the air, heavy and final.

Classmates left in small groups. The streetlights reflected off the snowy sidewalk, sparkling like shattered glass.

I watched them go—laughing, arm in arm, their footsteps crunching in the snow. The light caught on the ice, turning the world into a kaleidoscope of broken diamonds. I felt like I was watching life through a window, separate and apart.

“It’s a shame. You finally saw him again after everything—”

Casey’s voice was gentle now, the anger drained away. She always knew how to find the soft spot in any wound. I swallowed, wishing she’d just let me wallow.

“Nobody waits around forever, Casey.”

I tried to sound wise, but the words tasted bitter. I’d spent so long waiting for something—anything—to change. I was tired of being stuck.

Some things—if you don’t say them when it matters—it only gets worse later.

Regret is a heavy thing. It sits on your chest, making it hard to breathe—especially on nights like this. I hugged myself, fighting off the chill.

The cold wind stung my eyes until they hurt. I blinked hard, eyes watering.

I said it for her, but mostly for myself. The words felt like a promise I might actually keep this time.

Even after years clawing my way out, hoping to face him with dignity—it was too late.

I’d imagined this moment a thousand times, always with me standing tall, chin up, unbothered. But reality was messier, colder. The dignity I’d chased felt like a mirage.

“All right, we’ll talk when you get back.”

Casey’s voice was soft, a lifeline tossed across the miles. I clung to it, grateful for her steadiness, even if I couldn’t believe in it yet.

It was below freezing, just before New Year’s. Cabs were impossible, and after a while my hands went numb.

The wind whipped around the corner, slicing through my gloves. My phone showed the ride-share app—still waiting, the little car icon inching along the map at a glacial pace. I stamped my feet, trying to feel my toes again.

My app: still “waiting.”

I watched the screen, willing the number to change, my breath fogging up the glass. Time crawled.

Behind me came the click of high heels, and a woman’s gentle voice: “Adam, the snow is beautiful.”

The sound was unmistakable—heels on concrete, the soft lilt of her voice. I didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

“It’s cold out. Go wait in the car, I’ll be there in a minute.” Adam’s voice was unmistakable, clear and firm.

His tone was gentle but firm, the kind of voice you use when you expect to be obeyed. I could hear the impatience simmering just beneath the surface.

“Hurry up, then.”

She sounded playful, almost teasing. As she passed, I caught a whiff of her perfume—expensive, floral, just a little too sweet.

As she walked past me, she gave me a look that said more than words ever could.

Her eyes met mine, and for a split second, I saw something—curiosity, maybe, or challenge. She didn’t say a word, but the message was clear: I won.

She headed over to a car, opened the door, and as she moved, a bracelet swung from her wrist—one I recognized instantly.

The streetlamp’s glow caught on the silver charm, making it glint. My stomach dropped. I knew that bracelet. I’d worn it once, years ago.

It was the Foster family heirloom. I’d worn it once, and after we broke up, I’d sent it back to Adam through someone else.

I remembered the way it felt on my wrist—heavy, precious. Returning it had felt like slamming a door I wasn’t ready to close. Now it looked right at home on her, as if it had never belonged to me at all.

So she wasn’t just a girlfriend—she was his fiancée.

That little detail stung more than I expected. The line between us was bold, bright, and unbreakable. I swallowed hard, feeling the loss settle in my bones.

Everyone else had left; only Adam and I remained. The night pressed in, and it felt like the world had narrowed to just us.

The silence between us was charged, electric. The city noise faded, leaving only the crunch of snow and the pounding of my own heart.

My cab still hadn’t arrived. I checked my phone, frustration and dread tangling in my chest.

I checked my phone again, willing the screen to change. Nothing.

Adam stood behind me the whole time, silent. His presence pressed at my back.

I could feel him there—heavy, unyielding. He didn’t say a word, just stood, the air between us thick with memories.

The two of us just stood there under the streetlight, our shadows overlapping. For a moment, I felt suspended in time.

The light stretched our shadows across the sidewalk, mingling them until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. For a second, it almost felt like old times—almost.

My thoughts drifted back to that night—the night we broke up. Adam had gotten into a car accident on his way to see me. The memory crashed in, raw and sharp.

The memory hit me hard, sharp and sudden. The phone call, the panic, the helplessness. I’d replayed that night a thousand times, each time wishing I could change how it ended.

His friend called, voice taut: “Adam’s in the hospital.”

The words echoed through the receiver, turning my blood to ice. I remembered dropping everything, heart pounding, hands shaking.

“Is he in danger?” My voice barely made it out—a tremor, a whisper.

The fear was raw and real. “If he’s not, you’re not coming?” The accusation was sharp, the implication clear. Guilt pressed down on me.

“Please take care of him.” I choked the words out, desperate, pleading.

“Julia, he got a spot to go abroad. He’s bound for big things. Why couldn’t you wait a little longer? Were you really that desperate for money? After everything he’s done for you, you’ll never be able to repay him. Did you forget all of it?” His friend’s voice cracked, frustration and heartbreak bleeding through.

I could hear the disbelief, the anger. It was almost too much to bear. I wanted to defend myself, but the words wouldn’t come.

His friend was almost breaking down, just short of calling me heartless. The guilt was suffocating.

I could hear the tears in his voice, the betrayal. It hurt, but I understood it. I’d made my choice, and everyone else had to live with it too.

Suddenly, someone grabbed the phone and hung up. The abruptness left me reeling.

The line went dead, leaving me alone with my regrets and the cold silence of my apartment. I stared at the wall, wishing I could disappear.

Honestly, I was the one who left him. It made sense that he’d hate me. The truth of it stung.

I’d carried that guilt for years, wearing it like a second skin. I never expected forgiveness. Sometimes I wondered if I even deserved it.