Chapter 2: Holding On at the Edge

But my throat was closed up. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get the words out.

I swallowed, hard, hoping she could feel what I meant in the way I held her, the way I kissed her back. My chest felt too tight to let anything out.

We’re about to go our separate ways. I can’t say those words anymore. Now, even sweet words feel like they’d cut us both open.

I was afraid that if I said them, we’d both fall apart right there in the lobby, under the cheap fluorescent lights and the watchful eyes of strangers passing by.

She closed her eyes, crying as she kissed me back.

Her shoulders shook, and I felt her tears mix with mine. The world faded away until it was just us, clinging to each other in the middle of goodbye.

I wanted to tell her:

My love for you is like the wind—always moving, impossible to pin down.

I imagined saying it, my voice low and steady, but the words stayed trapped inside. I wanted her to know that even when we were apart, my love would find her, somewhere, somehow.

My love for you is like clouds—always drifting.

Even if we were miles apart, I’d still look up at the sky and think of her. Every cloud would be a reminder, soft and persistent, always moving, never gone.

I kept saying it in my head.

I repeated it, over and over, hoping she could somehow hear it, feel it in the way I held her, in the trembling of my hands.

I didn’t dare. With us ending, I didn’t want to leave a scar that never heals.

I was afraid the words would haunt us both, echoing in empty rooms long after we’d gone our separate ways. I wanted to protect her, even from the pain of loving me.

All I could do was kiss her, hold her close, wishing I could pull her into my chest forever.

I wrapped my arms around her, pressing her as close as I could. Hoping that maybe if I held on tight enough, time would stop for just a little while.

Lost in the moment, she bit my lip and whispered, steady and serious, “I love you. I can’t let you go.”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. But it hit me like a thunderclap. She looked right into my eyes, fearless for the first time all night.

She was braver than me.

She’d always been the one to take the leap, to say what I was too scared to admit. I admired her for that, even as it made my heart ache.

It felt like something burst inside me.

A dam broke, and all the feelings I’d tried to bottle up came rushing out, wild and overwhelming. I felt like I might come undone right there.

I kissed her hard, our tongues tangled, hungry for more.

I couldn’t get enough of her. The taste of her, the way she trembled in my arms, made me want to memorize every inch of her.

She didn’t pull away.

She leaned into me, her hands finding my hair, her body pressed against mine like she wanted to fuse us together, just for this one night.

We were both clumsy at kissing, but we put everything we had into it.

We bumped noses, laughed nervously. Then kissed again, messier and deeper. All the awkwardness made it feel even more real—two people trying to hold onto something slipping away.

I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to hold her forever.

If I could’ve pressed pause on the universe, I would have. I wanted to keep her in my arms until the world forgot about us.

I’d pictured our future a thousand times. Over and over.

Late nights on the couch, her head on my shoulder. Sunday mornings making pancakes, her hair wild and tangled. I’d imagined us old and gray, still bickering about who left the milk out.

I imagined her waking up in my arms every morning.

Her sleepy smile, the way she’d mumble good morning and bury her face in my chest. I wanted to be the first thing she saw every day.

I imagined getting down on one knee, buying her the prettiest ring I could afford.

I’d practiced the speech in my head a dozen times, rehearsing in the mirror, wondering if I’d cry before I even got the words out. I’d pictured her saying yes, tears in her eyes, and the whole world feeling right for once.

I imagined all the sweet moments we could’ve had, but I never pictured losing her.

It never occurred to me that our story might end here, in a hotel lobby, with tears and broken hearts instead of promises and forever.

In our kiss, I tasted salt—the taste of her tears.

It was bittersweet, a reminder that love isn’t always happy, that sometimes it hurts more than anything else.

The ache in my chest made me breathe her in, desperate for every last trace of her.

I pressed my face into her hair, inhaling the scent of her lavender shampoo, trying to memorize it, knowing it would fade with time.

Maybe it was her hair. Maybe it was the lavender laundry soap on her shirt.

The familiar smell of her always calmed me, like home. Even now, it brought back a thousand memories—movie nights, lazy afternoons, her head on my shoulder as we watched the rain outside.

I loved every part of her, breathing her deep into my lungs.

It felt like if I could just hold onto her scent, I could keep a piece of her forever, tucked away where no one else could reach.

After tonight, I won’t get to hold her again.

That thought hit me like a punch to the gut. I squeezed her tighter, desperate to make the moment last.

After tonight, I won’t get to kiss her again.

No more soft goodnight kisses. No more quick pecks before class. The finality of it made my hands shake.

It hurts—my heart aches.

It was a physical pain, sharp and relentless. I wondered if she felt it too, if her chest ached the way mine did.

I love her so much, but I’ll never get to hold her in my arms again.

I tried to memorize the feeling of her body against mine. The warmth of her skin. The way she fit perfectly in my arms. I wanted to remember it forever.

She squeezed my hand, determined, and led me into the hotel.

Her grip was firm, almost fierce, like she was holding onto the last bit of courage she had. We walked past the vending machines and the faded armchairs, our footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

The front desk clerk glanced at us, probably wondering why her eyes were so red. He looked up from his computer, gave us a polite nod, then glanced away quickly, pretending not to notice.

We handed over our licenses, filling out the forms in a daze.

My hands shook as I wrote my name. She pressed the pen too hard, leaving deep grooves in the paper. Neither of us said a word, lost in our own thoughts.

I thought today would just be us walking our old haunts.

I’d planned to retrace our steps, maybe get one last coffee at the place where we had our first date. I didn’t expect to end up here, standing under the harsh lobby lights, filling out a hotel registration form.

She liked those plushies at the little gift shop on Main. I wanted to buy her one as a goodbye present. Something small to remember us by.

I’d seen her eyeing the stuffed animals in the window, especially the little brown bear with the crooked bowtie. I’d planned to sneak back and buy it for her, tuck it in her bag so she’d find it later, a small reminder of us.

She loved jasmine green tea from the boba shop—light ice, half sugar. I’d always order it for her ahead of time. Every single time.

The barista would smile when I walked in, already starting her drink before I even said a word. It was our ritual—her texting me, "Almost there!" and me waiting with her favorite drink in hand.

Every street we walked, every store we passed, held memories of us.