There's a kind of silence that doesn't feel empty—it feels heavy, like it's holding its breath for me to speak first. That's the kind of silence between Andrew and me now. It's strange, because we were never quiet people. We used to talk about everything—dreams, fears, how he hated pineapple on pizza but would eat it anyway if I asked him to. But tonight, it's different. Tonight, his eyes don't search for mine the way they used to, and I can't bring myself to ask why.
It's been weeks since I felt him slipping away. It's in the way he answers with short texts, in the way he doesn't hold my hand in public anymore, in the way he turns his face when I lean in to kiss him. I tell myself I'm imagining it, that maybe we're both just tired from work, that this is just another rough patch we'll survive. But deep down, I know. I can feel the goodbye in the air—it's lingering like a storm we both refuse to talk about.
I want to ask him if he's still mine, but I'm scared of the answer. Because if he says no, then everything I've built my world around will collapse. And if he says yes, I'm afraid I won't believe him anymore. So instead, I sit there, memorizing the lines of his face under the dim restaurant lights, wishing I could freeze this moment before it becomes a memory I'll have to live with for the rest of my life.
"Grace," Andrew finally says, his voice low, careful, as if speaking too loud might shatter something between us.I force a small smile. "Yeah?"He hesitates, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "We… need to talk."
My stomach knots, the kind of twist that makes breathing feel like work. We need to talk.Those four words never lead to anything good.
I straighten in my seat, pretending to reach for my water just to buy a few seconds. "Okay," I say, aiming for casual but hearing the wobble in my voice.
Andrew's gaze doesn't waver, but there's something in his eyes—regret, maybe—that makes my chest ache. "I don't want to hurt you, Grace."
I laugh softly because the alternative is to cry. "That's usually what people say right before they do exactly that."
His jaw tenses. "I'm just… not the same person I was when we started this. And I don't think you are either."
"I'm still me," I say, too quickly. Too desperately. "Maybe I'm not perfect, but—"
"It's not about perfect," he cuts in, his voice almost pleading now. "It's about… feeling like we're on the same page. And lately, I can't find my place in your story."
My throat tightens. Our story. The words echo, hollow and cruel.
"So what is this?" I ask quietly. "A bookmark? Or the last page?"
Andrew looks down at his hands, his silence telling me everything he's too much of a coward to say.
Grace's gaze lingered on Andrew's cold presence, and without warning, a memory surfaced.
It was freshman year, the kind of September afternoon where the heat clung stubbornly to the air even though summer had technically ended. The campus was alive in a way Grace hadn't yet learned to love—students rushing past with lanyards swinging, flyers being shoved into hands, snippets of a dozen different conversations spilling into the hallway.
She clutched her books too tightly to her chest, not because they were heavy, but because it gave her something to hold on to. Her best friend, Clara, was weaving through the crowd like she'd been here for years instead of just a week. Grace trailed behind, careful not to lose sight of her.
They passed the library—its tall, arched doors propped open to let in the faint breeze—and that's when Clara slowed. Leaning casually against the doorframe was a boy who looked like he belonged there, like the campus itself had conjured him. He had a well-worn notebook tucked under one arm and a lopsided smile that suggested he knew more than he let on.
"Grace, meet Andrew," Clara said with a grin that made Grace instantly suspicious.
He looked up from whatever he'd been reading, and his eyes—brown, warm, and curious—met hers in a way that made the hallway noise fade to a distant hum. He offered a handshake, and when their palms met, it was firm but unhurried, like he wasn't just greeting her—he was learning her.
"Nice to meet you," he said, his voice steady, even though something in his gaze made Grace's pulse stumble.
They spoke only briefly—small talk about classes, the chaos of finding lecture halls, and Clara teasing them about both being night owls. Grace walked away from that meeting, telling herself it was nothing. But later that night, lying in her dorm bed with the faint hum of her roommate's music in the background, she found herself replaying the exact tilt of his smile.
Over the next few weeks, they kept running into each other—sometimes by accident, sometimes because Clara had a knack for "coincidentally" arranging it. They'd bump into one another at the café near the arts building, at the library study tables, in the food court where Andrew always seemed to be scribbling in his notebook between bites of fries.
One afternoon, Grace sat alone by the campus fountain, pretending to read while watching people pass. She looked up to find Andrew standing there with two cups of coffee.
"I didn't know how you take it," he said, handing one to her, "so I guessed."
She took a sip—medium roast, two sugars, just enough cream. Perfect. "You guessed right."
"That's a good sign," he said, grinning before taking the seat beside her.
From there, it became a habit—study sessions that turned into conversations about music and books, about the cities they wanted to live in, about fears they'd never admitted to anyone else. Andrew had a way of listening that made her feel like every word she said mattered.
By winter, they were inseparable.
She remembered one night in particular. Snow had dusted the campus lawn, the air sharp enough to sting, but they still walked from the library to her dorm slowly, like the cold couldn't touch them. He carried her backpack without asking. She wore his scarf, the wool scratchy against her chin but smelling faintly of cedar and soap.
At the steps to her building, they stopped. Neither of them moved to go inside.
"You're staring," she teased, though her gaze lingered on the curve of his jaw.
"I'm just… trying to memorize this," he said softly.
"This?" she laughed. "It's freezing. My nose is probably red."
"Exactly," he said, his smile small but certain. "You'll never look like this again. I don't want to forget it."
It was the kind of line that could have sounded practiced coming from anyone else. From him, it felt like the truth.
They had their first kiss in spring, under the acacia trees that lined the far edge of campus. The petals had started to fall, the ground dotted with pale yellow like confetti. Grace didn't remember who leaned in first. She only remembered the way the world seemed to hush the moment his lips met hers. It wasn't fireworks—it was something quieter, deeper. The kind of kiss that didn't ask for more because it already had everything.
After that, it was easy to believe their story would last forever. They had matching coffee mugs in each other's dorms. They'd fallen asleep more times than they could count on the worn couch in Andrew's apartment, his head tilted against hers while an old movie played unwatched.
When people called them "college sweethearts," Grace smiled because it was true. They were young, in love, and certain that no matter what, they'd find a way to keep this.
And now—sitting across from him in the restaurant years later, his eyes avoiding hers—Grace felt the memory like a bruise she'd pressed too hard. That boy from the library doorframe was still in there somewhere, she thought. She just couldn't reach him anymore.
I feel the memory like a bruise, I've pressed too hard. That boy from the library doorframe is still in there somewhere. I know it. I've seen glimpses—tiny flashes in the way he sometimes laughs without thinking, or the way his brow furrows when he's reading something that matters to him.
But maybe the truth is… I haven't known him in a long time. Maybe I never did—not in the way I thought.
I used to believe love was about memorizing each other's stories, knowing every detail, every fear. But now, I wonder if people are more like books with pages that keep getting written when you're not looking. Somewhere along the way, I stopped reading his.
Maybe it was work. Maybe it was the way our schedules stretched us thin—late nights at the office for me, endless business trips for him, our conversations turning into bullet-point updates instead of the slow, lingering talks we used to have.
Or maybe it was deeper than that. Maybe we just… want different endings.
He talks about cities on the other side of the world, places I've only ever imagined. I talk about putting down roots, buying a little place with too many windows. Our plans have started sounding less like a shared dream and more like two parallel lines—close enough to see each other, but never touching.
And here we are, at a table for two, feeling like strangers in a story we swore we'd finish together.
I clear my throat, my voice softer than I mean it to be. "When did we stop wanting the same things?"
Andrew's jaw tightens, his thumb still dragging slow circles over the side of his glass. "Maybe when we started pretending we did."
The words sting, but I can't tell if it's because they're cruel or because they're true.
"So all this time…" I start, my voice breaking before I can finish. "You've just been waiting for an exit?"
His eyes finally meet mine, and there's a sadness there that feels heavier than anger. "I've been hoping for a reason to stay."
For a second, my breath catches, because if he's been hoping for a reason to stay, then what does that make me? Not enough? Too much? The wrong shape entirely?
"And you didn't find one," I say, not as a question but as a statement that tastes bitter on my tongue.
Andrew's eyes flicker, like I've hit a nerve, but he doesn't rush to deny it. "I tried, Grace. I tried."
Something in me cracks—quietly, invisibly, like hairline fractures in glass no one notices until it shatters. "Do you know what it feels like," I ask, "to love someone so much you bend yourself into shapes you don't even recognize, just so they won't let go?"
His gaze drops to the table, as if he can't bear to hold mine. "Do you know what it feels like to stay and feel like you're slowly disappearing?"
The air between us is thick, heavy with the weight of two people who once promised forever but can't remember the language they spoke back then.
"Maybe we've both been disappearing," I whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly, like my words hurt more than they should. "Maybe we have."
Outside, the rain is relentless, drumming against the glass like a clock counting down. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we've already reached the end—we're just too stubborn to stand up and walk away at the same time.
Finally, I push back my chair. "I can't sit here and watch you fall out of love with me."
Andrew doesn't stop me. That's how I know it's over.
The moment I step outside, the night swallows me whole.The air is thick with rain, cold enough to sting but not enough to wash anything away. My heels click against the pavement, sharp and uneven, echoing off the wet concrete walls of the parking lot.
I replay his voice in my head, every word weighted and jagged.Maybe when we started pretending we did.I've been hoping for a reason to stay.
It's like carrying broken glass in my hands—I don't know which pieces will cut me, only that they all will eventually.
I keep walking, my grip tightening around my purse strap. The world feels quieter out here, but it's the wrong kind of quiet. The kind that makes you hear the sound of your heart breaking.
Under the dim yellow lights, puddles ripple with every drop of rain. My reflection bends and distorts in them, like even the water doesn't know what to make of me anymore.
I pass row after row of cars, searching for mine, but my mind is miles away—back at that table, staring into eyes that used to feel like home and now feel like a locked door.
I think about the first time he looked at me, the way his smile carried possibility. And I think about tonight, how his silence carried endings.
The rain slicks my hair against my cheeks. I can't tell if the dampness on my face is from the sky or my own eyes.
The sound of a distant engine grows louder, but I barely notice. All I can hear is my voice in my head asking questions I'll never get answers to.
My car sits alone near the far end of the lot, beads of water rolling down its silver hood like they're in no hurry to reach the ground. I unlock it with trembling fingers, sliding into the driver's seat. The familiar scent of old leather and the faint trace of my vanilla car freshener greet me, but instead of comfort, it feels like an echo of something that used to be safe.
I shut the door, sealing myself inside, away from the rain, but the storm follows me in anyway, sitting heavy in my chest.
We're over.The thought lands hard, like a book being slammed shut.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles pale against the dark leather. The reality tastes bitter, metallic, like blood in the mouth. My mind races to the life we'd been building like it was a house—walls painted with laughter, furniture chosen for "someday," plans stacked neatly for the years ahead. Now it's all just… dust.
How do you start over when you've spent years drawing a map for two?How do you learn to speak in "I" again when all you've known is "we"?
I turn the key, and the engine hums to life.The rain drums against the windshield, rhythmic, steady, like the ticking of a clock I can't stop. I flick on the wipers, but no amount of clearing the glass makes the night ahead of me look less blurred.
My hand moves almost on its own to the radio, maybe searching for noise to drown out my thoughts. Static gives way to a soft voice—deep, easy, familiar in the way late-night radio hosts always are.
"…and sometimes," the DJ says, his tone dipped in sympathy, "love isn't about how much you feel, but about whether you can still meet in the middle. And if you can't… well, maybe the kindest thing you can do is let each other go."
My chest tightens.
He continues, "Tonight's letter comes from someone who says she and her boyfriend were college sweethearts. They planned everything—careers, a house, even the names of their future kids. But somewhere along the way, she says, they became two different people. She says she stayed longer than she should have because she didn't want to hurt him. But now she feels like a ghost in her own life."
I feel my whole body tense, like I'm bracing for an impact that hasn't come yet.
"It's hard," the DJ says softly, "when the person you love most is the one holding you back from being who you're meant to be. And maybe that's the cruelest kind of love—the one that looks perfect from the outside but feels like slow suffocation when you're living in it."
My grip on the wheel tightens until my fingers ache. My throat burns, and I tell myself I'm fine, that I can hold it together like I always do. But the words seep in, soaking into the cracks I've been patching for years.
Before I can stop it, the first sob rips free.
It's ugly and loud and doesn't care who hears. Years of being the stronger one—for him, for us—pour out in shuddering breaths. All the swallowed arguments, all the "I'm okay"s when I wasn't, all the times I held my own needs down so his could float—they crash over me like a wave I can't fight.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel, once, twice, again, the sound sharp in the small space. "Why wasn't I enough?" The words are ragged, choked. "Why did I have to carry us alone?"
The rain outside only grows heavier, each drop smearing the streetlights into streaks of gold and white. My vision is already a blur from the tears, but I throw the car into reverse anyway, pulling out of the space with a jerky motion.
I'm not thinking about where I'm going.I'm not thinking at all.
The DJ's voice fades into a song I don't recognize—something slow, mournful, with a piano that seems to play in sync with the ache in my chest.
I turn out of the lot, my headlights cutting through sheets of rain. The roads are slick, the kind where tires hiss against the asphalt. My hands are trembling, my breath uneven, but I press the accelerator like I can outrun what's happened.
My thoughts scatter, chaotic.His face was across the restaurant table.The sound of his voice saying I tried.The memory of our first kiss under the acacia trees.The way he didn't stop me when I walked away.
"God, I loved you," I whisper to no one. My vision blurs again, the street ahead melting into swirls of shadow and light.
I swipe at my cheeks, glancing down for half a second to fumble with the radio dial—anything to break the silence between sobs. When I look back up, it's already too late.
A utility pole looms ahead, slick and dark against the rain, much closer than it should be.
My breath catches in my throat. My hands jerk the wheel, too hard, too fast. The tires skid, the car spinning in a sickening arc. There's the screech of rubber, the thud of impact, the shatter of glass.
Then—nothing but the sound of rain.
It's strange how quiet it feels after. The radio is still humming some sad song, but it's muffled, as if it's coming from underwater. The wipers keep moving, swiping at glass that's no longer whole. One of them squeaks against the fractured windshield, dragging across spiderweb cracks.
My body is here, but my mind feels… elsewhere. Like the crash didn't jolt me so much as float me into another version of myself.
I take stock slowly. My hands are still on the wheel, though they're trembling. The seatbelt digs into my shoulder. My knees feel locked, frozen in place. I can taste copper, and I realize my lip is bleeding, a slow trickle that meets the corner of my mouth and cools in the rain-cooled air.
Pain registers, but dimly—like I'm being told about it rather than feeling it. What I do feel is the strange hollowness in my chest. And it hits me: even though my body aches, even though there's glass scattered across my lap like shards of a broken promise, nothing hurts as much as sitting across from Andrew tonight.
There's no wound sharper than knowing someone you built your whole life around no longer sees you in their future.And that's the cruelest part—it's not even anger I feel toward him. Just the heaviness of being unloved by the person I loved most.
I stare through the fractured windshield at the rain-streaked world outside. My breath comes in shallow bursts, each one misting the air in front of me. My fingers feel cold, my pulse sluggish. The smell of burnt rubber and wet asphalt clings to the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of my vanilla air freshener.
Somewhere, distantly, I hear shouting. The scrape of hurried footsteps splashing through puddles. The flash of red and blue light reflects faintly off the wet road ahead, bending and breaking through the cracked glass.
I try to move, but my body feels like it's been poured in concrete. My eyelids are so heavy.
A man's voice cuts through the rain. "We've got one here! She's still breathing!"
Doors slam. More footsteps. My door handle rattles but doesn't budge, so someone yells for the hydraulic spreader. I don't bother panicking—panic would require more energy than I have.
Hands are on me now—steady, professional. A flashlight beam sweeps over my face, making my pupils contract. Someone asks me my name, but my voice feels trapped behind my teeth. I manage a faint sound, maybe just a sigh, and they take it as enough.
"We're gonna get you out, okay? Stay with me."
I want to tell them I'm fine. I've been staying with someone for years, holding things together, pretending I'm unbreakable. But I can't keep my eyes open for long enough to speak.
The crunch of metal echoes somewhere behind me, sharp enough to pierce through my haze. It doesn't sound like my car. My gaze shifts slightly in the rearview mirror—or what's left of it—and I catch a blur of motion. Headlights skewed at an impossible angle. Another car. Another pole.
For a moment, I wonder if they were coming from the same direction as me, if maybe they, too, were lost in their storm and never saw the world rushing toward them until it was too late.
The rescuers shout again, this time splitting their focus. More sirens join the night, wailing against the rain.
I blink, slow and heavy, the edges of my vision darkening. The taste of metal thickens in my mouth. My breaths grow shallower.
Someone squeezes my hand—it feels far away—and tells me to keep my eyes open. But all I can think is how strange it is that I've never been more awake to my own life than in this moment, right before I might lose it.
I take one last look in the direction of that second crash, though my sight is failing. A warped shadow of a figure is moving near the wreck, just barely visible through the rain and flashing lights.
And then the dark swallows it all.