The morning after the fight dawned gray, as though the sky itself shared the heaviness pressing against April's chest. She hadn't slept much, tossing between guilt and frustration, longing and hurt. The sheets tangled around her legs felt like chains, and the silence of her apartment seemed louder than any argument.
Across town, Brandy woke in much the same state. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his heart raw from replaying every sharp word they'd exchanged. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone on the nightstand, waiting for a message that didn't come.
Both carried the ache of absence. Both felt the weight of what they had said. And both—though they would never admit it aloud—clung desperately to the memories of what they still had.
April's Memories
April curled on her couch with a blanket around her shoulders, her eyes tracing the steam rising from her untouched coffee. The bitterness of last night lingered on her tongue, but beneath it lay something softer, more fragile: the recollection of how good it once felt.
Her mind drifted to the night Brandy had first walked her home in the rain. She could still feel the weight of his jacket around her shoulders, the quiet laughter that slipped between them as their shoes splashed through puddles. She remembered how safe she had felt, how effortless it had been to let him in.
Another memory tugged at her lips, pulling them into a faint smile despite her tears. That summer afternoon by the river, when he'd pointed out cloud shapes and teased her for seeing rabbits where he only saw smudges. He had leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-closed against the sun, and told her she had a way of making the world less lonely.
The way he had looked at her then—like she was the first real thing he'd ever known—still made her heart ache.
But the strongest memory of all, the one she tried and failed to push away, was the night under the stars when he had confessed his love. His voice had trembled, but his eyes had been steady, lit with something so unshakably true that she'd almost cried. She remembered how her own voice had caught when she whispered "yes," and the way he had held her afterward, as though nothing could break them.
April pressed her hands to her face, whispering into the silence: What happened to us?
Brandy's Memories
Meanwhile, Brandy sat with his elbows braced against his knees, staring blankly at the guitar propped against the wall. He hadn't played since the fight, but his fingers itched with the need to strum out the ache lodged in his chest.
Instead, his mind slipped into the reel of memories that haunted him, uninvited.
The first image that rose was of April in that café, the very first time he saw her—hair damp from the rain, eyes lit with curiosity as she argued with the barista over her order. He hadn't even known her name then, but something about her had unsettled him, like a missing piece snapping into place.
Then came the night she had cooked for him in her tiny kitchen, burning the pasta but laughing so hard they ended up eating takeout straight from the containers. He could still hear her laughter—light, unguarded—still feel the way it had melted something locked tight inside him.
But it was a softer memory that pierced deepest: the morning he woke to find her asleep on his chest, hair tangled across his shirt, her lips slightly parted in peaceful surrender. He had lain there for nearly an hour, hardly breathing, terrified of moving and shattering the fragile miracle of having her in his arms.
He had never felt more certain of anything than he had in that moment. Certain that April was his home.
Now, the silence of his apartment mocked him, a hollow echo of what once filled it. He ran a hand over his face, muttering under his breath, I can't lose her.
The Weight of Silence
The day crawled by, each hour stretching thin with absence.
April tried to distract herself with work, burying herself in reports and forms, but every line blurred with the thought of Brandy's eyes the night before—hurt, afraid, angry. She wanted to call him, to explain, to undo the damage, but pride and fear locked her throat.
Brandy busied himself with odd chores—washing dishes, fixing a squeaky cabinet, rearranging the books on his shelf—but none of it quieted the echo of April's voice breaking as she cried, Do you know what it feels like to love someone with everything you are, and still feel like it's never enough?
Neither of them could stop hearing it. Neither could stop feeling the wound of it.
April's Solitude
That evening, April wandered to the park where they'd spent so many afternoons. The benches were empty, the playground silent. She sat under the tree where Brandy had once kissed her forehead, her hands twisting in her lap.
Around her, couples strolled, laughing, holding hands. The sight was bittersweet, a reflection of what she longed for and what she feared was slipping away.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, scrolling through old photos—Brandy grinning with a goofy peace sign, Brandy squinting into the sun, Brandy asleep on the couch with her cat curled on his stomach.
Each image was a knife and a balm at once. She loved him. She loved him so much it hurt. But how could love survive when their dreams pulled them in different directions?
Brandy's Solitude
At the same time, Brandy found himself at the riverside they had once claimed as their spot. He sat on the grass, staring at the rippling water, the memory of her laughter blending with the rush of the current.
He remembered the way her hair had flown in the wind as she twirled on the bank, teasing him for being too serious. He remembered how the sunlight had caught her eyes, making them shimmer.
He had never told her then how much she scared him—not April herself, but the way she made him want forever. He had never admitted how fragile that hope felt, how easily it could be stolen.
Now, sitting alone, he realized he had let fear speak louder than love. And fear, he knew, was the enemy of everything he wanted to keep.
Two People, One Memory
That night, in separate beds, April and Brandy dreamed of the same thing: the night they had first said I love you.
The memory came to them both like a film unspooling—starlight above, trembling voices, promises whispered into the dark.
They woke with tears on their cheeks, their hearts aching with the same truth: the love was still there. Bruised, battered, but alive.
The question now was whether it was strong enough to carry them through.