Chapter 1: The Night I Stopped Chasing

In the sixth year of loving Harrison Lee—my so-called 'white moonlight,' basically the one that got away—I finally decided it was time to let go. That phrase, 'white moonlight,' always sounded so poetic in my head, like he was the gentle glow I kept chasing. Maybe it’s a little dramatic, but that’s how it felt: an unreachable, silvery hope.

I remember the way those words just sat there, heavy and unmoving, pressing down on my chest. I could barely breathe. Six years—a whole era, really, stretching from when I was a wide-eyed college kid to someone who could spot heartbreak coming from a mile away. Letting go wasn’t some big, cinematic moment. It was quiet. Inevitable. Like the last crust of snow melting off the curb in March, barely noticed but final all the same.

And it all started because a girl’s silhouette—watching the sunset—suddenly showed up on Harrison’s Instagram story. His story, not just any random post. My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it. Why did it feel like the ground shifted beneath me?

It was just a fleeting story, one of those twenty-four-hour blips that usually slipped past me without a second thought. But this one? It hit different. The image stuck with me, haunting me long after it disappeared. The colors of the sunset bled into every thought for the rest of the day. I couldn’t shake it. I just sat there, stunned.

I watched the way his eyes crinkled into a smile when he mentioned her. He looked so happy. And in that instant, I understood.

There was a softness in his voice I’d never heard before. A brightness that didn’t show up when he talked to me. He talked about her, and it was like he’d opened a window in his heart—a window I didn’t even know existed. I felt the cold air of realization rush in.

Just because you’re always around doesn’t mean you’ll ever have his heart. You know? That stings.

I’d always told myself that if I just stayed—if I just kept showing up—maybe he’d finally see me. But love doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, you can be the most loyal shadow in someone’s life and still stay invisible.

He never even saw me as a possibility. Ouch. God, that hurt.

That realization hurt more than any outright rejection ever could. It was the ache of being overlooked, of never even making it onto the starting lineup. Not even on the bench. Just left in the stands, watching the game from afar.

I stopped pouring all my feelings into him. I had to. It was self-preservation.

The decision was slow—like turning off a faucet that’s been dripping for years, one stubborn drop at a time. Each day, I let a little more go. It wasn’t easy. Some days I’d almost forget, then it would all come rushing back.

Each day, I told myself: just a little more. I can do this.

And it turns out, when the moon sets, the sun still rises. I guess that’s the thing about chasing moonlight—you forget the sun’s always waiting for you. Maybe the metaphor is a little much, but it’s true.

It’s a cliché, but clichés exist for a reason. There’s always another morning, another shot at starting over. Even if it’s just a little bit brighter than yesterday.

You can walk into the spring light all on your own. And yeah, it’s scary. But you can do it. I did.

And when you do, the world feels different. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe you just start to notice the warmth that was always there, waiting for you to step into it. It’s not magic. It’s just life moving forward.

I noticed Harrison had changed his Instagram profile picture just after I wrapped up a long night of overtime. Funny how timing works.

I was hunched over my laptop, the city lights flickering outside the window. My eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets. Still, my thumb found its way to Instagram—almost on autopilot. That’s when I saw it. My heart skipped a beat.

Our chat was still frozen at ten minutes ago. The silence between us felt louder than usual.

"When do you get off work? I’ll take you to this amazing sushi place downtown."

His messages always felt like a lifeline at the end of a long day. Sometimes, I’d cling to them like they were the only thing holding me together. It was routine, almost comforting—like the hum of the heater in winter. I depended on it more than I liked to admit.

The chat was filled with good morning snaps of sunrise and goodnight messages, mixed with file links and silly memes, all layered on top of each other.

Scrolling back, I saw a collage of our digital lives: sleepy selfies at dawn, blurry shots of coffee cups, frantic links to last-minute work files. It was all so ordinary. But somehow, it felt like the sum total of our relationship. That was it. Just pixels and routine.

Just like countless ordinary days over the past six years. Nothing special. Or maybe too special to admit.

Six years of routines. Six years of being each other’s emergency contact, but never each other’s first choice. I felt a dull ache in my chest. That’s just the way it was.

I worked hard at my little desk, hustling to make a living. Some nights, I’d stare at the screen until my eyes blurred, wondering if any of it mattered. The grind never stopped.

Sometimes I’d look around my cramped apartment, fingers sore from typing, and wonder if any of it was getting me anywhere. But I kept grinding, one day at a time. What else could I do?

He drove his black Escalade, windows down in the evening breeze, casually sharing snippets of his day and his moods with me. I could almost hear his voice—easy, confident, never rushed.

I could always picture him—one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing as he talked, the wind ruffling his hair. He made everything sound easy, like the world was just waiting for him to take it on. I envied that.

The unspoken bond between us was subtle, but it wasn’t love. Not really. Not the kind I wanted.

It was something in-between—a friendship with too many blurred lines and not enough boundaries. We hovered on the edge of something more, but never crossed it. It was frustrating. It was familiar.

I liked him. More than I should have. More than was good for me.

It was the kind of liking that made you remember every detail, every inside joke, every accidental brush of his hand against yours. But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for me.

But he never once said he liked me back. Not once. Not even a hint.

Not in words, not in actions. Not in the way that mattered. Not even close. And that’s what stung.

I rubbed my aching temples and, like always, replied with a cat-rolling-around GIF. It was muscle memory at this point.

It was our inside joke—a silly, harmless thing. I stared at the screen a moment longer, hoping for a spark that never came. Just silence. Just me.

Then, on a whim, I clicked into his barely updated Instagram profile. I don’t even know what I was looking for. Maybe proof that things hadn’t changed.

Curiosity got the better of me. My heart thudded in my chest as I waited for the page to load. Fingers hovered over the glass. I braced myself.

And in the next second, my mind exploded. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. It didn’t make sense.

It was like getting the wind knocked out of me. I blinked, half-expecting it to be a glitch. But it wasn’t.

He’d changed his profile picture from the puppy we’d raised together to the silhouette of a girl watching the sunset. That puppy was ours. Now, it was someone else’s turn.

That puppy had been our shared secret, a bond from a summer long ago. Now, in its place, was someone new—a stranger who felt like a threat. I felt replaced. Just like that.

Her skin was porcelain white, and she wore a silky white dress, sitting on the roof of Harrison’s car. She looked effortless, like she belonged there.

She looked like she belonged in a magazine ad, every detail effortless and perfect. The kind of girl you’d see at a Hamptons garden party, not at a dive bar with the rest of us. She was unreal.

Her ankles were crossed, delicate and pale, and she wore a Tiffany fan pendant anklet that caught the light. She glanced back at the camera with a gentle smile. The image was so clear, so intentional.

It was such a tiny detail—the necklace, the way her hair caught the light—but it made my heart clench. She looked so at ease in his world. Like she’d always belonged.

Such a simple photo, but it stung my eyes until they ached. I blinked hard, trying to clear the burn. Why did it hurt this much?

I felt my throat tighten, the way it does when you’re about to cry but refuse to let the tears fall. I hated that a picture could hurt this much. But it did. God, it did.

I’d chased after Harrison for six whole years. Six years. That’s a long time to hold onto hope.

I thought of all the times I’d shown up for him: late-night calls, surprise birthday cupcakes, the little ways I tried to make him smile. Six years of hope. Six years of waiting.

I’d confessed no less than three times. Three times. You’d think I’d get the message.

Each confession was a leap of faith, a moment of trembling honesty. Each time, I braced myself for the answer I already knew. But I had to try.

But each time, he gently turned me down. "I’m just not ready for a relationship right now." That line. I could recite it in my sleep.

He always let me down easy, never cruel, but never giving me what I wanted. It was almost worse than a hard no. The gentle rejection stung more.

Fine, I’ll wait. I told myself that. I even believed it. Ha. I was so naïve.

I told myself patience was a virtue. That maybe, one day, he’d change his mind. Hope is stubborn like that. It doesn’t know when to quit.

Sometimes, when I was about to give up, he’d look at me so seriously. Like I was the only person in the room.

His eyes would lock on mine, and for a second, I’d believe anything was possible. It was enough to keep me hanging on. Just one more day.

"Savannah, you mean a lot to me. I don’t want to lose you over this." He said it like a promise, but it was really just a delay. I see that now. I wish I’d seen it sooner.

So he kept me at his side as a good friend for six years. Six years of almost-but-not-quite.

We were partners in everything but name. Always together, but never together. It was a special kind of limbo. Not quite friends, not quite lovers. Just stuck.

We chatted every day, met up every week. It was routine. Comfortable. Familiar.

Our lives were intertwined in all the small ways—morning coffees, shared playlists, inside jokes only we understood. It felt like something. But it wasn’t.

He’d walk with me, hold my hand, even hug me—just like a boyfriend would. Sometimes, when he’d pull me close, I’d let myself pretend. Just for a second. But the moment always passed. Reality always returned.

All these years, I’d never seen him treat another girl even half as kindly. I thought that meant something. I wanted it to mean something.

It made me feel special, like maybe I was the exception. But now, I see it was just convenience. I was there, so he let me be close. That’s all it was. Just proximity.

I always held out hope. It was a bad habit. I couldn’t help it.

Hope is a stubborn thing. It keeps you going long after you should’ve let go. Honestly, it’s exhausting.

But now, staring at his new Instagram background, my heart seemed to skip a beat. This was different. This was final.

The shock of it hit me so hard, I almost dropped my phone. My chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and replaced with cold air. I just sat there, stunned.

I zoomed in and out on that girl’s photo, looking at it over and over again. Obsessive, maybe. But I couldn’t stop.

I searched for clues, for any sign that I was wrong. Maybe it was just a friend, maybe I was overreacting. But deep down, I knew. I always knew.

I couldn’t stop my mind from running wild. It spun out of control, painting every worst-case scenario in vivid color.

Every worst-case scenario played out in my head. I imagined them laughing together, sharing secrets I’d never know. It hurt. It really hurt.

Jealousy and envy wrestled inside me. Ugly, bitter feelings. I hated them. But they were there, anyway.

It was ugly, the way those feelings bubbled up. I hated feeling like this, but I couldn’t help it. I was only human.

I switched back to our chat, fingers trembling as I typed, but deleted every word before sending. My heart raced. I couldn’t do it.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand answers. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. Not like this.

My nails dug deep into my palms before I snapped back to reality. The pain was grounding. I was still here. Still me.

The sting grounded me, a sharp reminder that I was still here, still myself, even if everything else was changing. I took a shaky breath.

Who was I to question him, anyway? Seriously, who did I think I was?

We were friends. That’s all I’d ever been, no matter how much I wanted more. That was the truth.

I’d never let more than five minutes pass before replying to his messages, but this time I hesitated for a long time and deleted everything I wanted to ask. I stared at the blinking cursor, my fingers frozen.

I watched the blinking cursor, then let it fade away. I told myself I was just busy, but really, I was trying to protect what was left of my pride. It was all I had left.

Rain tapped softly against the window. The sound was oddly soothing.

The city felt quieter than usual, the rain muffling the usual chaos. It was the kind of night that made you feel small, but safe. I let myself sink into it.

I sat there alone for ages. The quiet stretched on and on.

The minutes stretched on, the office emptying out around me. I listened to the rain, trying to steady my breath. One breath at a time.

It was only when the clock struck nine that I finally got up and left the office. My body felt heavy, every step an effort.

I gathered my things slowly, the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders. The elevator ride down felt endless. I just wanted to disappear.

Just as I stepped out of the building, I saw Harrison’s car parked at the entrance. My heart jumped.

The sight of his Escalade, headlights softly glowing in the drizzle, sent my heart into my throat. He always did have a knack for showing up when I least expected it. Why now?

Inside the dimly lit car, his features were sharp. He looked up at me in that instant, our eyes meeting. I felt exposed.

His face was half-shadowed, but his eyes were unmistakable—warm, familiar, and just a little bit tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

"What are you doing here?" My voice came out softer than I intended, a mix of surprise and something else I couldn’t name. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

The moonlight caught on his slightly helpless smile. He looked almost sheepish. Like he knew he shouldn’t be here, but couldn’t help himself.

He gave me that lopsided grin I’d seen a thousand times, the one that said he was trying to play it cool. Classic Harrison.

"It’s raining. I came to pick you up, is that not allowed?" He tried to sound casual, but there was something behind his words.

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was just what friends did. But I could hear the question behind his words. Did I want him here?

The black SUV was understated but luxurious. It always felt like stepping into a different world.

The interior smelled faintly of leather and cedar, a comfort I’d grown used to over the years. He always kept it spotless, except for the clutter in the backseat that was uniquely his. I breathed it in, feeling a wave of nostalgia.

We drove through the glittering nightlife. The city sparkled, alive and indifferent.

The city was alive, neon lights reflected in puddles, people darting under umbrellas. For a moment, it almost felt like old times. Like nothing had changed.

The busiest, most famous sushi bar in Maple Heights. That’s where he took me. It was our spot.

The place was buzzing, the air thick with laughter and the scent of fresh fish. We’d been here so many times, it almost felt like home. The noise wrapped around us.

The place was bright and lively. It was comforting, in a weird way.

Waitstaff hustled between tables, calling out orders. The clatter of plates and chopsticks filled the air. It was chaos, but it felt safe.

Harrison and I sat across from each other. The distance between us felt bigger than ever.

The table between us felt both impossibly small and too wide, depending on how I looked at it. I couldn’t decide which was worse.

Just like always, he set the plates and mixed the soy sauce just right. He knew my habits better than I did.

He was meticulous, fussing over the details like he always did. It was one of the little things that made me fall for him in the first place. I tried not to notice.

"You’ve been busy lately, huh? Tired?" His voice was gentle, concern flickering in his eyes. But tonight, it felt like a script we’d both memorized. I could recite my lines, too.

I mumbled a reply, not really paying attention. My thoughts were somewhere else. Somewhere painful.

I couldn’t meet his gaze. My mind was still stuck on that photo, on the girl with the sunset smile. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t.

He frowned at me, then reached over with his long fingers to check my forehead. The touch was so familiar it almost broke me.

His touch was cool, careful. The gesture was so familiar it almost hurt. I flinched, just a little.

"No fever. So why do you look so out of it?" He sounded genuinely worried. I almost laughed.

He sounded genuinely worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to explain. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.

I instinctively pulled away. My body moved before my mind could catch up.

I scooted back in my seat, forcing a smile. I couldn’t let him see how much I was unraveling inside. Not here. Not now.

Right then, I honestly resented how familiar he was being. It felt like a cruel joke.

I felt a flash of anger—at him, at myself, at the whole stupid situation. Why was he still playing the part of the caring friend? Didn’t he know how much it hurt?

What was this, anyway? What were we doing?

I wanted to ask, to demand clarity. But the words stuck in my throat. I swallowed them, like always.

He was about to have a girlfriend, but still kept me hanging on, acting all caring. I wanted to scream.

It wasn’t fair. Not to me, not to her, not to anyone. I felt like I was stuck in some cruel in-between. No way out.

I took a gulp of sake, braced myself, and spoke up. My hands shook.

The warmth of the alcohol gave me just enough courage to ask what I needed to know. I steadied my voice.

"Harrison, who’s the girl in your Instagram story?" I tried to sound casual. I failed.

I tried to sound casual, but my voice trembled. I watched his face for any sign of guilt or surprise. I held my breath.

The gentle look on his face froze, his brow furrowed for a second. I saw it—the crack in his armor.

For a moment, he looked caught off guard. Then, just as quickly, he smoothed it over. Like always.

But soon, he relaxed and smiled softly. He was good at that—pretending nothing was wrong.

He put on that practiced, easy smile—the one he used when he wanted to avoid uncomfortable topics. I knew it well.

He lowered his head and started peeling shrimp for me, one by one. Classic distraction technique.

It was his classic move: distract with food, avoid eye contact. I knew all his tricks by now. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

"A friend." That was it. Just a friend. Sure.

His answer was quick, a little too rehearsed. I almost rolled my eyes.

"Met her at a family get-together, then we all went to the beach together." He kept talking, filling the silence.

He kept his tone light, but I caught the slight hitch in his voice. I wondered if he even realized it. Maybe he did.

With the alcohol buzzing in me, I looked at him and smiled. It felt fake. I felt fake.

I forced a smile, trying to play along. If he wanted to pretend, I could pretend too. Two can play at that game.

He wore a gray turtleneck, looking sharp and elegant. In the soft light, his straight nose and thin lips were almost heartbreakingly handsome. It wasn’t fair.

He looked like he belonged in a magazine, every line of his face drawn just right. It was almost unfair. I hated how much I noticed.

Just his looks alone were enough to justify my six years of liking him. I wish that wasn’t true.

I couldn’t blame myself for falling. Anyone would have. Anyone with a pulse.

But no matter how much I liked him, I wouldn’t wedge myself between him and someone else. I had limits. I had pride.

I had my pride, even if it was battered and bruised. I wouldn’t be the girl who couldn’t take a hint. Not anymore.

"Harrison, you don’t have to hide things from me." I tried to sound strong. I don’t know if it worked.

I kept my voice steady, meeting his eyes. I wanted him to know I could handle the truth. Even if it broke me.

"If you have a girlfriend, please tell me. I’ll keep my distance." It nearly killed me to say it.

It cost me to say it, but I meant it. I couldn’t keep playing this game. I was done.

Harrison wiped his hands, placed the peeled shrimp on my plate, and pushed it toward me. The gesture was gentle. Too gentle.

He did it with a care that almost made me want to cry. For a second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or was it relief?

He met my eyes. The moment stretched between us.

The look he gave me was steady, almost challenging. I held his gaze, refusing to look away first. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

In just a few hours, my world felt like it had been hit by a hurricane. Nothing was the same.

I could barely remember what life felt like before tonight. Everything felt raw and exposed. I was tired. So tired.

But he acted as if nothing had happened, his voice steady as a calm lake. He was good at that. Too good.

He was always good at hiding what he felt. Maybe that was why I fell for him—he made everything look easy. I wished I could do the same.

"Savannah, you’re overthinking it. If you don’t like the photo, I can change it anytime." He said it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

He said it like he was doing me a favor, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal—to me. It was everything.

His answer sounded thoughtful and considerate, but it was full of holes. I saw right through it.

I could see right through it. I knew him too well to be fooled by empty reassurances. I was done pretending.

When he mentioned that girl, his eyes sparkled and curved into a smile. That was real. That was honest.

It was the kind of smile you can’t fake. The kind that only shows up when you’re talking about someone who matters. I’d seen it before. Just never for me.

I knew that look all too well. It hurt.

It was the look I wore every time I talked about him. I wondered if he’d ever noticed. Probably not.

It was the way I looked at Harrison. That realization stung. But it was also a relief. At least now I knew.

That realization hurt, but it was also freeing. At least now I knew. I could stop hoping.

I didn’t push him further. There was nothing left to say.

There was no point. I’d said my piece. The rest was up to him. I was done fighting.

He let it drop too. We let it die.

We both knew the conversation was over, at least for tonight. We let the silence settle.

After our late-night meal, Harrison wanted to drive me home, just like always. Some things never change.

He offered, keys in hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But I couldn’t accept this time. Not tonight.

But I turned him down. I needed space.

I told him I needed to walk, to clear my head. He didn’t argue, just nodded and watched me go. I appreciated that.

I needed time alone, to think things through. I needed air.

I walked slowly, letting the cold air sting my cheeks. It helped, a little. It made me feel real.

Maple Heights’ winter nights were always cold and windy. The city felt endless.

The wind whipped through the empty streets, carrying the scent of snow and distant woodsmoke. My breath came out in clouds. I watched it swirl away.

I walked alone, found the girl’s Instagram through Harrison’s story. I couldn’t help myself.

It wasn’t hard. Her profile was public, every post curated and perfect. I scrolled, unable to stop myself. It was like picking at a scab.

Her feed was filled with snapshots of her life. Everything looked effortless.

She was the kind of girl who made everything look effortless: brunches, vacations, parties, all documented in flawless lighting. She glowed.

She posted photos of a Christmas tree taller than she was in her mansion, surrounded by piles of gifts. It was unreal.

The tree looked like something out of a Rockefeller Center display. The gifts were wrapped in gold and silver, ribbons curled just so. I couldn’t look away.

Photos of her skiing in Aspen. She made it look easy.

She looked like she belonged on the cover of a ski magazine, all rosy cheeks and designer gear. She fit right in.

Photos of countless beautiful dresses in her closet. I counted them, one by one.

Rows of dresses, all colors and styles, arranged like a rainbow. I counted at least a dozen with the tags still on. Who needs that many?

One group photo caught my attention. My heart stopped.

It was the kind of picture you couldn’t fake—everyone looked genuinely happy, arms slung around each other, mid-laugh. I wanted to be there. I wanted to belong.

She was clinging sweetly to Harrison’s arm, smiling softly. He looked so at ease.

Her head rested on his shoulder, her smile bright and easy. Harrison looked relaxed, his eyes crinkled in that way I knew so well. He was happy.

And in the photo, it wasn’t just Harrison—it was his parents, too. That hurt more than I expected.

His mom stood next to her, hand on her back, looking every bit the approving future mother-in-law. His dad was smiling, too. They looked like a family.

In that moment, I felt like a balloon filled to bursting, pricked silently by a tiny needle, leaking air without a sound. I deflated.

The realization was sharp and sudden. All my hopes, my dreams—they deflated in an instant, leaving me empty. I just stared.

She and Harrison were family friends. That explained everything.

Of course they were. The kind of connection you can’t buy, only inherit. I never stood a chance.

She came from a wealthy background, grew up happy and privileged. Their whole lives were smooth and dazzling. I felt small.

I scrolled through her posts, each one a highlight reel of a life I could only imagine. It was a world of galas, charity balls, and summer homes. I didn’t belong.

And behind me were my dad, paralyzed after an injury, and my domineering, unstable mom—a total mess. My family was nothing like his.

My family was nothing like his. We were loud, messy, sometimes broken, but we loved each other in our own way. Still, it wasn’t enough to bridge the gap. Not really.

Between me and Harrison, there had always been a wall. I just refused to see it.

I just hadn’t wanted to see it. But it was there, solid and unyielding. No amount of hope could change that.

And that wall was called class. That’s the truth, even if no one says it out loud.

It’s not something people talk about, but it shapes everything. Who you know, where you go, what you dream about. It’s everywhere.

Snow drifted down softly. It felt like the world was slowing down for me.

The first flakes landed on my coat, melting instantly. The city glowed under the streetlights, everything muffled and still. I stood there, letting it soak in.

I looked up at the city’s glittering skyline. The world looked so big from here.

From here, the buildings looked close enough to touch. But I knew better. They were worlds away.

Towering buildings, and my tiny rented apartment. The contrast was stark.

I thought of my little studio, the cracked window, the way the radiator clanked at night. It was home, but it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for me.

Worlds apart. That’s just how it was.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t cross that distance. Not really. I finally accepted that.

When I got home, a little drunk, I collapsed into bed, drowsy. I didn’t even change.

The warmth of my blanket was a small comfort. My head spun, but I was too tired to care. I just wanted to disappear.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I ignored it at first.

The vibration was insistent, pulling me back from the edge of sleep. I groaned.

It was a message from Harrison. Of course it was.

I hesitated before opening it, bracing myself for whatever it might say. My heart pounded.

"Home yet?" Just two words, but they felt heavier than usual. Like he knew something had shifted.

"Tomorrow’s Saturday. Let’s go camping—the trip you’ve always wanted." I stared at the screen, confused.

He always remembered the little things. The camping trip I’d mentioned a dozen times but never planned. It was just like him to offer, out of the blue. Why now?

Harrison’s kindness always came out of nowhere. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

He had a way of showing up just when I needed him, always with the perfect gesture or the right words. It made it hard to let go. Maybe that was the point.

He’d buy me a little cupcake I’d mentioned in passing. It was sweet. It was cruel.

The kind with the pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. He’d show up at my door, grinning, as if it was nothing. Like I didn’t matter.

Or show up outside my office with a surprise when life was crushing me. It always worked. I always melted.

Once, after a brutal week at work, he’d brought me a bouquet of sunflowers. I’d never told him they were my favorite, but he knew. I wondered how.

But his attitude was like the wind—impossible to hold onto. He never said he liked me, never said no either. It was exhausting.

He was always just out of reach. Close enough to touch, but never really mine. That was the worst part.

I couldn’t catch him. I stumbled along, anxious and uncertain. Always one step behind.

Every time I thought I had a grip on what we were, he’d slip away again. It was exhausting. I was tired of chasing.

Now, I was just tired. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. I wanted off this merry-go-round. Enough was enough.

I didn’t reply, just locked my phone and fell asleep. I couldn’t do it anymore.

For once, I let myself drift off without waiting for his response. It felt like a tiny victory.

When I woke up the next day, I saw several missed calls from Harrison. I didn’t care. Not really.

The notifications glowed on my screen, but I didn’t have the energy to listen to his voicemails. I let them pile up.

And at some point, his Instagram profile picture had changed back to the puppy we’d raised together. Too little, too late.

It was a small gesture, but it didn’t mean what it used to. The damage was done. We couldn’t go back.

After that awkward night, I didn’t see Harrison for a long time. The silence was loud.

The days stretched on, each one a little emptier than the last. I filled the silence with work, with friends, with anything that wasn’t him. It helped. Sort of.

He suddenly got very busy. Or maybe he just stopped trying.

His texts became sporadic, his calls even rarer. I told myself it was for the best. I almost believed it.

And without my constant reaching out, we barely talked anymore. It was like we’d never been close at all.

The realization stung, but it was also a relief. Maybe now I could finally move on. Maybe.

I even had to check that girl’s Instagram to know what Harrison was up to. It was pathetic. I hated myself for it.

It was humiliating, scrolling through her feed just to catch glimpses of his life. But I couldn’t help myself. Old habits die hard.

During those silent days, Harrison went with her to see penguins in Alaska, caught red shrimp off the coast of Maine, strolled the beaches of Hawaii, watched the sunset. They looked happy.

Each post was a punch to the gut. I imagined them laughing together, sharing moments I’d only dreamed of. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

Her latest Instagram post was pinned: a photo by the sea. My heart sank.

The ocean stretched out behind them, waves crashing against the rocks. It was the kind of photo you frame, not just post. I stared at it for a long time.

By the rocks, the girl leaned into Harrison’s arms, flashing a peace sign. She looked like she belonged there.

She looked so happy, so sure of her place in his life. I envied her confidence. I wanted it for myself.

Harrison’s hand rested gently on her waist, full of tenderness. He’d never touched me like that. Not once.

It was the kind of touch that left no room for doubt. He’d never touched me like that. I finally believed it.

The world suddenly went quiet. It was just me and the ache in my chest.

It was like someone pressed pause on everything. All the noise, all the chaos—it just faded away. I was alone.

Turns out, I could go a long time without speaking. Silence wasn’t so bad.

I’d always thought I needed to fill the silence, but now I found comfort in it. It was easier than pretending everything was fine. I let myself be quiet.

Harrison never admitted their relationship, but the photos said it all. No more pretending.

He didn’t have to say a word. The truth was right there, for anyone to see. Even me.

I touched my cold, tear-stained face. I was surprised by how much I still cared.

The tears surprised me, but I let them fall. Sometimes you have to let yourself break before you can start to heal. That’s what they say, right?

It’s okay. It has to be.

I whispered it into the darkness, hoping it would stick. Maybe if I said it enough, I’d believe it.

I told myself. Over and over, until I started to believe it. It got a little easier every time.

Crushes fade, and so does love. That’s what everyone says. I guess they’re right.

I’d heard it a hundred times, but now I knew it was true. Nothing lasts forever, not even heartbreak. I clung to that.

Love always runs out. Eventually, I’d wake up. Someday.

One day, I’d look back and wonder why I ever cared so much. But not yet. Not today.