It had been a week since Maya stayed. A week of quiet mornings and uncertain glances across the breakfast table. Kian no longer reached for her hand when they walked down the street. Maya no longer leaned her head on his shoulder during movie nights. The love was still there—tethered loosely, like a paper boat caught in the waves—but the closeness had been bruised.
They spoke more, that much was true. About Kian's past, about the time he and Ivan shared in a dingy one-bedroom apartment near campus, about the night they kissed for the first time, drunk on cheap wine and jazz music. Maya listened. Sometimes, she even asked questions. But something inside her felt splintered, like the reality she had trusted was now made of fog and shifting shapes.
What hurt most was not that Kian had loved someone else. It was that he hadn't trusted her enough to carry that truth with him.
That Thursday, Maya found herself walking alone through Kensington Market, the late afternoon sun painting golden streaks across shop windows. She wandered aimlessly, past antique stores and tiny bookstores with creaking floorboards. Eventually, she stopped at a café they used to visit in their early days. She ordered two lattes, out of habit, then stared at the second cup for a long time.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Unknown: Hey. It's Ivan.
Her heart dropped.
She stared at the name on the screen like it might catch fire. How had he gotten her number? Had Kian told him? Or had Ivan found her on his own?
Ivan: I know this is unexpected. I'm not trying to cause drama. I just… wanted to talk. One time. You deserve to hear things from me too.
Maya didn't respond immediately. She sat with the message, her pulse echoing in her ears.
What could Ivan possibly say that Kian hadn't already? What could this stranger—this ghost from her boyfriend's past—give her, other than more doubt?
Still, her fingers moved before she could stop them.
Maya: One coffee. That's it.
Ivan: Tomorrow. Elio's. 5pm?
She hesitated. Then typed back.
Maya: Okay.
When Maya arrived at Elio's the next evening, the air was damp with the threat of rain. The café was mostly empty, save for a couple in the corner and a man at the window with a paperback and tired eyes.
Ivan was already there.
He looked exactly like she expected and nothing like she expected at all. Clean-cut. Olive skin. Eyes that held too much depth for someone his age. He stood when he saw her, awkward but polite.
"Maya," he said gently.
She nodded and sat across from him. "Ivan."
They ordered quietly. Coffee for her. Black tea for him. No small talk.
He folded his hands and looked at her carefully. "You probably hate me."
"I don't know you enough to hate you."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
She waited.
Ivan took a breath. "I'm not here to try to fix anything. Or steal him. Or stir up old feelings. Kian and I… what we had ended a long time ago. But it shaped him. And I think you deserve to know how."
Maya listened, watching his eyes, the way his mouth moved around words like memory still stung.
"We were young," he said. "Confused. We both came from families that didn't exactly celebrate difference. We found comfort in each other, but also fear. I loved him. I think a part of me still does—but not in a way that competes with you. More like… I'll always care about the boy I held while he cried in the dark."
Maya's chest tightened.
Ivan leaned forward slightly. "When I saw him again, I could tell he wasn't at peace. He was happy, yeah. With you. But the part of himself he'd shoved down? It was still screaming."
She swallowed. "So you helped him let it out."
"I reminded him of a version of himself he buried. That's all. He's not running back to me, Maya. He's trying to stop running from himself."
Maya looked down at her hands. "I don't know how to hold space for all of it. The history. The fear. The version of Kian who existed before me."
Ivan reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook, worn around the edges. "He gave this to me. Years ago. Wrote poems in it. Letters he never sent. You should have it."
She shook her head, lips parting. "Why would you—"
"Because," Ivan interrupted softly, "you're trying. And he loves you more than he knows how to show right now. This might help you understand the parts he still doesn't know how to say out loud."
Maya took the notebook with trembling fingers.
They sat in silence a moment longer, sipping their drinks as the rain began to tap against the windows.
Before she left, Maya looked him in the eye and said, "Thank you."
Ivan gave a small, sad smile. "Be good to him. And don't forget to be good to yourself too."
That night, Maya lay curled under a throw blanket with the notebook open in her lap. Kian was out—meeting an old friend—and for the first time in days, she was grateful for the space.
She flipped through the pages. Some were scribbled in haste, others carefully printed. Most dated back to 2018. There were song lyrics. Doodles. Half-formed letters.
And then a page titled, "To the Girl I Haven't Met Yet."
> I hope I can be enough for you. That my past won't scare you. That you'll hold me when I'm unsure of who I am. That you'll be kind, but not fragile. Strong, but not hard. I want to be better for you. Even if I'm not whole yet.
Maya read the words twice.
Then closed the notebook, eyes stinging, heart full of aching questions and complicated hope.
She still didn't have all the answers. But maybe, just maybe, she was starting to understand the man she loved—not as a perfect picture, but as a living, breaking, rebuilding story.
And maybe that was enough—for now.