Ellen doesn’t interrupt me once.
That’s how I know this conversation matters.
We’re sitting on the low stone wall near the back of campus, the one half-hidden by overgrown ivy and a crooked lamppost that flickers when the wind is strong. It’s late afternoon. The air smells like damp leaves and cold concrete. Ellen’s backpack is between her feet. Mine is pressed against my hip like an anchor.
“I told him,” I say, staring straight ahead, “that it was his last chance.”
Ellen hums softly but doesn’t look at me.
“I said he either grows,” I continue, my voice flat, “or he gets left behind.”
I swallow.
“And he chose to get left behind.”
The words sound heavier when spoken out loud. Final in a way I’ve been trying not to admit to myself. Ellen finally turns her head and looks at me, really looks at me, like she’s checking for cracks.
“And?” she asks.
“And nothing,” I say. “That’s the problem. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t promise anything. He didn’t even argue. He just… let it happen.”
I laugh weakly. “Which somehow hurts more.”
Ellen exhales through her nose. “Yeah. That tracks.”
I frown. “You’re not going to tell me I did the right thing?”
She shrugs. “I can if you want the reassurance version.”
“And the honest version?”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You already know.”
I close my eyes briefly. “That obvious?”
“You’ve been orbiting his collapse for months,” she says. “At some point, gravity wins.”
“That’s… bleak.”
“That’s physics,” she replies.
I huff a breath that might be a laugh. Might be a sob.
“I keep waiting to feel devastated,” I admit. “Like heartbroken in the way movies promise. But mostly I feel… quiet.”
“Quiet doesn’t mean empty,” Ellen says. “Sometimes it means the noise stopped.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “It feels wrong to not be destroyed.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I loved him,” I say automatically.
“And you still might,” she replies. “Love doesn’t vanish just because it stops being survivable.”
That hits harder than I expect.
I shift, pulling my knees up to my chest. “What if I gave up too soon?”
Ellen doesn’t answer immediately. She watches a couple of students pass by in the distance, laughing loudly, carefree in a way that feels almost unreal.
“Did you give up,” she finally asks, “or did you stop sacrificing yourself?”
The question sits between us, heavy and precise.
“I told him I wouldn’t stay paused anymore,” I say quietly. “That if he didn’t try, I would leave.”
“And did he try?”
“No.”
She nods once. “Then he made the choice for both of you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “You’re not sorry for me.”
She shakes her head. “I’m relieved for you.”
That makes my chest ache in a strange, complicated way.
“You’re a little heartless,” I mutter.
“I’m practical,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, the wind tugging at our clothes. My phone stays dark in my pocket. No messages. No missed calls.
“He hasn’t texted,” I say eventually.
“Neither have you,” Ellen points out.
“Yeah.”
“You waiting for him to?”
I think about it honestly. “No. I think I’m waiting to see if I’ll miss it.”
“And do you?”
I hesitate. “I miss the idea of him. Not… this version.”
“That’s growth,” she says.
I groan softly. “Don’t make it sound inspirational.”
She smirks. “Too late.”
I glance at her. “You’re acting weirdly calm about all this.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t end. You changed direction.”
I let that sink in.
When we part ways, Ellen gives me a brief nod. No hug. No dramatic goodbye. Just quiet certainty.
The ride feels longer than usual.
I stare out the window, watching buildings blur into one another, my thoughts looping despite my best efforts. Chase doesn’t appear in my head the way he used to—not as a wound, but as an echo. Something that existed, shaped me, and then… didn’t anymore.
What does it say about me that I’m not begging him to come back?
That I’m not romanticizing his pain anymore?
The bus jerks to a stop near my mother’s street. I step off, the air colder here, sharper. Her house looks the same as always—neatly trimmed lawn, lights warm behind drawn curtains. Predictable. Controlled.
Safe, in its own suffocating way.
I unlock the door and step inside quietly, kicking off my shoes. The house smells like lemon cleaner and something warm cooking on the stove.
“Mom?” I call softly.
No answer.
I set my bag down and head toward the living room, then freeze.
Her voice floats down the hallway, coming from the kitchen. She’s on the phone.
“No, I know,” Melissa says, her tone low, intimate. “I told you, she doesn’t need to know yet.”
My heart stutters.
She laughs softly—actually laughs. Not the tight, performative sound she uses socially, but something genuine.
“Yes, Harry,” she says. “I know. Just… be patient.”
My stomach drops so hard I feel dizzy.
Harry.
The name echoes in my head, sharp and unmistakable.
I stand there, half-hidden by the wall, my pulse roaring in my ears. I don’t move. I can’t.
She continues speaking, unaware.
“This weekend is fine,” she says. “I’ll figure something out. She’s distracted anyway.”
A pause.
“Yes,” Melissa adds, her voice softer still. “I miss you too.”
The world tilts.
My chest tightens painfully as everything inside me goes cold and electric at the same time. I grip the edge of the wall to steady myself, my thoughts scrambling, refusing to line up.
Harry.
Not just a Harry.
That Harry.
Professor Harry Wilson.
My professor.
The man whose calm has been haunting my thoughts. The man whose name made my mother flinch weeks ago. The man I’ve been trying not to imagine too vividly because it felt wrong in ways I couldn’t articulate.
I back away silently, my breath shallow, my mind racing.
This isn’t coincidence.
This is something else entirely.
Something that rewrites every assumption I’ve been standing on.