Chapter 1: The Last Walk Before Goodbye

May 20th—just another date on the calendar. But for us? It’s our last one. My girlfriend and I are about to break up.

Funny how a day can feel so ordinary to everyone else, but for two people, it can mean everything. The weight of that date pressed down on me. Heavy as the humid Ohio air that always clung to Maple Heights in late spring.

She told me she’d booked a room—said she wanted our first night together to be tonight.

The way she said it, her voice soft over the phone, made my stomach twist. I could hear the tremor in her voice—hope and heartbreak tangled together. I almost pretended not to hear, but she repeated herself, more quietly, and I knew she meant it.

We walked hand in hand through the old streets of Maple Heights, the ones we’d wandered a hundred times before. She kept her head down, wiping away tears every so often.

The brick sidewalks were uneven, dandelions poking up through the cracks. I squeezed her hand, feeling the roughness of her calluses from guitar lessons, remembering how she’d played for me on the corner by the bakery. Her tears left dark spots on her sleeve. Every few steps, she’d try to smile, like she didn’t want me to see how much it hurt.

I was fighting my own tears, my chest tight, my breathing ragged.

I tried to keep my shoulders straight, tried to blink fast enough that she wouldn’t notice. My throat burned. Each breath felt like it might shatter me. I could hear the echo of my heartbeat in my ears, and I kept wishing the street would just stretch on forever.

I can’t bear to let her go. But I know I can’t marry her either.

It’s a weird kind of pain—knowing you love someone but can’t give them the life they deserve. I kept replaying the same arguments in my head. All the reasons why it couldn’t work. But none of them made the ache go away.

I want to keep walking, keep holding her hand.

If I could, I’d walk with her until the sun came up, just so we didn’t have to say goodbye. I squeezed her fingers tighter, hoping she’d understand what I couldn’t say out loud.

But I know better than anyone—our story’s almost over.

Every step felt like the last page of a book I didn’t want to finish. The words were running out, and I could feel the ending coming, no matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise.

Someday, she’ll wear a white dress for someone else, become someone else’s bride.

I pictured her in a sunlit church, her hair curled just so, holding someone else’s hand. The thought made my stomach knot up, but I forced myself to imagine it, as if bracing myself would make it hurt less.

At the entrance to the Comfort Inn, she stopped.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh. For a second, we just stood there. The neon sign buzzed overhead, and the scent of cheap coffee drifted out from the lobby. She looked up at me, eyes shining with tears, and I felt my own resolve start to crumble.

She said, “I want my first time to be with you.”

Her words hung in the air—fragile and trembling.

I stared at her, unsure if I’d heard her right, my mind spinning.

I thought I’d misheard her.

For a split second, I wondered if she was joking, or if maybe I’d misunderstood. But the look in her eyes—raw, pleading—told me she was serious.

The girl who used to get shy even when we kissed now looked up at me, tears in her eyes, voice trembling: “I know I’ll never meet someone who loves me like you do. I want this to be with you, so I don’t regret it for the rest of my life.”

She’d always been so careful, so bashful about anything intimate. Now, standing under the harsh lobby lights, she looked so brave. And so heartbreakingly vulnerable. Her voice cracked, and I could see her fighting to hold herself together, determined to give me something she’d never given anyone else.

Her makeup was streaked from crying.

Mascara ran down her cheeks, leaving black trails. She tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, but only smudged them more. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but the words caught in my throat.

I leaned down and kissed her lips.

Her lips were soft and salty from tears. I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

I wanted to say, “I love you.”

It was right there, on the tip of my tongue. The words felt heavy, too big to get out, like they’d choke me if I tried.