(Cal's POV)
"The hardest part wasn't letting go. It was doing it while still remembering how much it once meant."
It was raining the first time he kissed Selene.
Not a storm. Not a cinematic downpour. Just the kind of soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the world and made everything feel slower, gentler. They'd ducked under the overhang of an old bookstore after dinner, both a little buzzed on wine and shared laughter. The kind of laughter that came easy, like breathing.
Selene looked at him then—really looked—and said, "You do this thing. Like you're trying not to take up too much space in the room."
Cal had blinked, caught off guard. "Is that bad?"
She smiled. "No. It's honest. Just… you don't have to shrink for anyone."
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't fireworks. It wasn't stars. It was something quieter. Warmer. Like finally finding a song you didn't know you needed. Something clicked. Something Cal hadn't felt in a long time—maybe ever.
He didn't tell Lacy.
Now.
Selene's voice buzzed gently through the phone. She was somewhere downtown, music playing faintly behind her.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
Cal sat on his bed, curtains drawn, laptop open but ignored.
"Of course."
"Are you still hung up on someone?"
The question didn't sting. But it didn't glide off him either.
He hesitated. "No. I'm just... learning to let go of something that never belonged to me."
There was silence. Then a quiet "Okay," from her. Not pressing. Not judging.
Just accepting.
Two days later, he met Lacy for stargazing. One of their old haunts, an empty rooftop that overlooked the city lights and the smallest patch of stars they could still claim.
They laid side by side on a picnic mat, arms barely brushing. Lacy pointed at one star and called it "Hope," then pointed at another and called it "Maybe."
Cal laughed softly. "You're still naming things like they'll listen to you."
"Maybe they do," Lacy said, turning his face slightly. "You just forgot how to hear them."
The words hit somewhere deep. Familiar. Dangerous.
There was a long pause, the sky wide above them.
And then—Lacy leaned in, slow, tentative, head resting closer to Cal's shoulder.
It was nothing.
But it was everything.
Cal felt it. The warmth. The weight. The ghost of what could've been if the world was a different shape.
He gently shifted away. Barely an inch.
But enough.
Lacy didn't say anything. Just looked back up at the sky.
And Cal stared at the stars like they were answering questions he hadn't asked.
That night, in the quiet of his apartment, Cal stared at the blank screen of his phone for a long time.
Then he typed:
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
He hit send.
And this time, he didn't flip the phone face-down.