It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day that’s too bright to match your mood. I was camped out in my favorite coffee shop near campus, laptop open, pretending I cared about an essay on European history. The cursor blinked on a blank page like it was judging me. I was stirring cold coffee, trying to make bitterness taste like productivity, when the car slid past the window.

Same paint. Same dent on the rear bumper from when he clipped a shopping cart last spring. Same stupid little air freshener swinging from the mirror.

And there it was—the drop in my stomach, the sudden heat behind my eyes, the ridiculous thought that maybe this meant something. That maybe I wasn’t erased. That maybe he was about to walk in, see me, and finally understand what he’d thrown away.

Then the Honda turned the corner and disappeared like it had never existed.

My hands froze on my keyboard. My throat went tight. The blank document on my screen turned into a mirror, reflecting every lie I’d been telling myself for three months: that I was fine, that I was over it, that I didn’t still measure my healing by whether Jerome was with Brianna now.

Outside, the street kept moving.

Inside, I sat there in the middle of my own quiet disaster and realized something terrifying:

I hadn’t stopped loving him.

I’d just gotten better at hiding it.

—————————————————————————

1. Before Brianna Came Back

Jerome and Brianna were the couple people pointed to when they wanted to believe in forever.

In college, I’d see them at events—Brianna in a sundress like she’d walked out of a Pinterest board, Jerome hovering close like her shadow, laughing at her jokes even when they weren’t funny. They were engaged by the time we graduated. There was talk of a fall wedding, then a winter wedding, then—suddenly—no wedding.

The explanation was brief and clean, the way people make breakups sound when they don’t want you to see the mess.

“Brianna needs space,” someone said.
“Jerome’s crushed,” someone else said.
“Sometimes people get cold feet.”

I didn’t know Jerome well then. Not really. We shared a few overlapping friends, and I had the kind of face people confided in—soft enough that you looked safe, forgettable enough that you didn’t feel threatened. When I ran into Jerome at a mutual friend’s cookout months later, he looked like someone walking around with a bruise you couldn’t see.

He smiled politely. He made the right jokes. He helped refill drinks. He did everything a good guy does so no one has to deal with his sadness.

When I caught him alone on the back porch, staring at nothing, I said the simplest thing I could.

“You okay?”

He blinked like he’d forgotten there were other humans. “Yeah,” he said automatically.

I didn’t push. I didn’t do the fake sympathy thing. I just leaned on the railing beside him and said, “You don’t have to be okay if you’re not.”

For a second his jaw tightened—like emotion was something he’d trained himself to hold back. Then he exhaled.

“She said she wasn’t ready,” he muttered. “After two years. After a ring. After planning. She said she needed to find herself.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I went honest.

“That’s brutal.”

He let out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Yeah.”

That night was the start of us, even though neither of us knew it.

Not romantically. Not yet.

Just… proximity.

After that, I checked in sometimes. A text. A coffee. A “How’s it going?” when I saw him on campus. He’d answer. Sometimes he’d talk. Sometimes he’d deflect. But little by little, he stopped looking like someone trying not to fall apart.

A year after Brianna left him, Jerome asked me out.

Not with fireworks. Not with a big speech. Just a simple, “Do you wanna grab dinner with me—like, as a date?”

I remember blinking at him, caught off guard.

“Are you sure?” I asked, half-joking, half terrified of being a rebound.

He smiled, small and warm. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

And I believed him.

For two years, I lived inside that belief.

He was attentive. Thoughtful. The kind of boyfriend who remembered I hated cilantro and always asked for no cilantro on my behalf. The kind who showed up with gas station sour gummies before finals and made me laugh when I wanted to cry. The kind who held my face in his hands on bad days and said, “I’m here.”

I built a future out of those moments. Quietly, privately, like you build a fire in your chest and assume it will keep you warm forever.

Then Brianna moved back to town.

And everything changed.

2. The Information I Didn’t Get From Him

I didn’t find out from Jerome.

That’s the part that still stings when I think about it—how the first crack wasn’t Brianna’s presence, it was his silence.

I heard it from a mutual friend, the way news spreads in college towns: casual, gossipy, effortless.

“Guess who I saw at the grocery store?” Lacey said, eyes wide like she was talking about a celebrity.

I shrugged. “Who?”

“Brianna.”

The name landed wrong. Like someone had knocked a glass off a table and it hadn’t shattered yet, but you knew it would.

“Brianna who?” I asked, even though I already knew.

Lacey gave me a look. “Jerome’s Brianna.”

I laughed like it didn’t matter. Like my nervous system wasn’t already lighting up.

“Oh,” I said. “Huh.”

That night, I brought it up lightly while Jerome chopped onions in my kitchen. He was making pasta like he always did when he wanted to feel useful.

“So,” I said, leaning on the counter, “I heard Brianna moved back.”

The knife paused for half a second.

Then kept chopping.

“Yeah,” he said too casually. “I heard.”

“From who?” I asked.

He shrugged. “People.”

The air in the kitchen changed.

He wouldn’t look at me. He focused too hard on the onions.

“Is she… like… back-back?” I asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Jerome exhaled sharply. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

It did matter. That was the point. But I swallowed the argument because I didn’t want to be the jealous girlfriend. I didn’t want to be the insecure stereotype.

I told myself: He’s with me. She left him. He chose me.

But over the next few weeks, it was like Jerome’s attention started leaking out of the relationship.

He was on his phone more. He smiled at texts he didn’t explain. He grew distant at dinner, eyes unfocused like he was replaying something in his head.

When I asked what was wrong, he always gave me the same answer.

“Work’s just been a lot.”

And I kept letting him.

Because I loved him. Because I trusted him. Because I thought love meant giving someone space even when it made you anxious.

Then one evening, I came home early.

Jerome was on the couch staring at his phone like it contained the meaning of life.

When he heard the door, he jolted and shoved it face-down into the cushion.

My stomach sank.

“Who are you texting?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

He hesitated just long enough to betray himself.

“Just… a friend.”

I watched him. The way his shoulders tightened. The way his eyes avoided mine.

“Is it Brianna?” I asked.

Silence is an answer.

Jerome swallowed. “She reached out,” he admitted. “She wanted to apologize.”

“For leaving you?” I asked, voice carefully flat.

“For how it ended,” he said. “She said she wasn’t in a good place back then.”

“And you’ve been talking,” I said.

Jerome nodded, not meeting my eyes. “A little.”

“How much is ‘a little’?” I asked.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Just… here and there.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand his phone. I wanted to become a person I didn’t recognize.

Instead, I said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jerome’s voice went quiet. “Because I knew you’d react like this.”

“Like what?” My throat tightened. “Like I’d care that my boyfriend is secretly talking to the woman he was engaged to?”

He flinched.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he said.

I stared at him. “Then why are you hiding it?”

He didn’t answer.

And that’s when I started to feel it—deep in my gut—like a storm cloud forming over land that had been clear for years.

Something was happening.

And it wasn’t just an apology.

3. The Anniversary Dinner I Ate Alone

Our anniversary was supposed to be simple.

No diamonds. No big gifts. Just a nice dinner, a little celebration of “we made it another year.”

I got ready like it mattered. I wore the dress he liked. I did my makeup a little more carefully than usual. I told myself: This is still us. This is still real.

I got to the restaurant early and sat at our table, smoothing my napkin like it could calm my nerves.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

At thirty minutes, I checked my phone.

Nothing.

At forty-five minutes, the waiter came over with polite confusion.

“Would you like to order while you wait?”

“I’m just waiting for someone,” I said, forcing a smile.

At an hour, my hands started shaking.

Finally my phone buzzed.

Sorry, something came up. Can we reschedu?

No call. No explanation. Just… a typo-filled text like I was an afterthought.

The humiliation hit hot and sharp.

I stared at the screen, then at the empty seat across from me.

I could feel other diners’ eyes—sympathetic, curious, pitying. I hated them.

I paid for my drink and left with my head high because if you’re going to be abandoned in public, you might as well do it with dignity.

I didn’t go home.

Instead, I drove to the park near campus—our old spot, back when we were new and everything felt simple. The place where we’d eaten cheap takeout on benches and talked about dreams like they were inevitable.

I don’t know why I went. Maybe I needed confirmation. Maybe my body was already walking me toward the truth because my brain couldn’t handle it yet.

When I pulled into the lot, I saw them immediately.

Jerome. Brianna.

On a bench.

Sitting too close.

Not touching, but intimate in that quiet way people get when they’ve shared a life.

My chest went tight.

I got out of the car like I was floating.

As I walked closer, Brianna saw me first.

Her face drained of color.

Jerome turned—and guilt flooded his expression so fast it was almost comical.

“I can explain,” he started.

I stopped in front of them, hands clenched at my sides. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Jerome looked down.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean for—”

“Did you cancel our anniversary dinner to sit here with her?” My voice was steady, which surprised me.

Jerome’s throat bobbed. “She needed to talk.”

“And I didn’t?” I asked.

Brianna stood up quickly, voice thin. “I didn’t know—”

I held up a hand. “Don’t.”

This wasn’t about her explanation. Not really. This was about the man who was supposed to choose me.

I looked at Jerome. “Do you still love me?”

He went still.

The pause was the loudest sound in the world.

“I thought I did,” he said finally, voice raw. “But honestly… I don’t know anymore.”

Something inside me went quiet.

Not relief. Not peace.

More like a door closing.

I nodded once.

Then I did the one thing that felt like it belonged in a movie—except it didn’t feel cinematic. It felt heavy.

I took off the bracelet he’d given me for my birthday—silver, simple, something I’d worn like a promise—and I set it on the bench between them.

“I hope you figure out what you want,” I said. “But I’m not going to wait around while you decide.”

Jerome’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

I turned and walked away.

He didn’t follow.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t text.

And that silence was the most honest thing he’d given me in weeks.

4. The First Days After: Survival Mode

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.

My body still expected him to be there. My brain still tried to reach for the routine: Jerome’s coffee order, Jerome’s hoodie on my chair, Jerome’s laugh in my kitchen.

But there was nothing.

Just absence.

I moved through my apartment like I was in someone else’s life.

I packed up his things with a strange calm. Shirts. Shoes. The dumb mug he insisted was “the perfect size.” A hoodie that smelled like him, which nearly broke me, but I folded it anyway.

I left everything on the porch like he was a package being returned.

Then I changed my passwords. Deleted shared calendars. Removed photos from social media with hands that didn’t feel like mine.

My friends rallied around me the way friends do when heartbreak becomes a group project.

Valerie—my roommate, my lifeline—made it her mission to keep me alive.

She showed up in my doorway with a grocery bag like I was a neglected plant.

“You need to eat,” she announced.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You haven’t eaten anything but a granola bar in two days,” she said, unimpressed. “Sit. I’m making mac and cheese.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

At night, the grief hit hardest.

In daylight, I could distract myself with classes and errands and pretending I had a future.

In the dark, my brain played highlight reels like punishment:

Jerome kissing my forehead. Jerome saying “I’m here.” Jerome laughing in bed. Jerome promising things that now felt like fiction.

I cried quietly so Valerie wouldn’t hear.

Then I cried louder because I was tired of being quiet.

Then I stared at the ceiling and wondered if I would ever feel normal again.

Three months passed, and the world expected me to move on.

Everyone loves a “strong woman” story.

Everyone loves a glow-up.

No one loves the messy middle where you still check your phone like an idiot even though you blocked him.

No one loves the part where you miss someone who didn’t choose you.

That part was mine alone.

5. The Coffee Shop Car and the Lie I Couldn’t Keep Telling

That’s why Jerome’s car outside the coffee shop wrecked me.

Because it proved that my healing wasn’t solid. It was a fragile tower built on routine and denial.

Valerie dropped into the chair across from me an hour later, still in gym clothes, hair in a messy bun, face damp from effort.

She took one look at me and didn’t ask what happened.

She just flagged the barista and ordered hot chocolate for both of us like we were eight years old.

When it arrived, she wrapped her hands around the mug and waited.

Valerie’s biggest skill wasn’t advice.

It was silence. The kind that made you feel safe enough to tell the truth.

I closed my laptop with shaking hands. “I saw Jerome’s car.”

Valerie nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“And my brain did the thing,” I admitted. “The stupid thing. Like… maybe he’s here for me.”

Valerie’s eyes softened. “That’s not stupid. That’s attachment.”

I swallowed hard. “I’ve been checking his social media.”

She didn’t flinch. “How?”

“I made a fake account,” I whispered, shame burning. “Because I blocked him on mine, but I keep… I keep wanting to know if he’s with Brianna.”

Valerie took a sip of her hot chocolate. “How often?”

I stared at the table. “Every night.”

She let that sit.

Then she said gently, “You’re not as over it as you keep telling everyone.”

The truth hit like a punch.

I’d been acting “fine” because fine got me through the day. Fine meant people stopped asking questions. Fine meant I didn’t have to see pity in their eyes.

But in private, I was still living in Jerome’s shadow.

Valerie reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“It’s okay to not be okay yet,” she said. “But stalking him is keeping you stuck.”

That night, back at the apartment, I sat on my bed with my phone in my hands.

Delete the fake account.

It felt dramatic, like cutting a cord. Like losing the last thread connecting me to his life.

My thumb hovered over the button.

My chest tight.

My brain begged for just one more scroll.

Just one more clue.

Valerie’s voice floated from the living room. “Come watch garbage TV with me.”

I took a shaky breath.

Pressed delete.

The account disappeared.

Immediately, my brain screamed, Make another one.

Instead, I walked out to the living room like a person choosing her own life on purpose.

We watched three episodes of some ridiculous reality show where strangers got married, and every five minutes my hand drifted toward my phone like muscle memory.

But there was nothing to check.

By midnight, the urge dulled—not gone, but quieter.

Progress felt like that:

Not a victory parade.

Just a small choice repeated until it became a habit.

6. Tiana’s Phone Call and the First Time I Let Myself Break

The next morning, my sister called.

Tiana didn’t do small talk when she sensed something was wrong.

She didn’t say hi.

She said, “Are you really okay, or are you pretending again?”

I burst into tears over a bowl of cereal like my body had been waiting for someone to give it permission.

“I feel pathetic,” I choked out. “It’s been three months, Ti. I should be over it.”

“Who decided that?” she asked calmly.

“Everyone,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Me.”

Tiana exhaled. “Three months is nothing. You’re grieving two years. Stop bullying yourself.”

I sniffed. “I made a fake account to check his socials.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “That’s not healthy, but it’s also not a crime. It’s a coping mechanism. You’re human.”

I stared at my soggy cereal. “Why am I still like this?”

“Because you loved him,” Tiana said simply. “And because he didn’t end it clean. He left you in limbo. Your brain wants resolution.”

I swallowed. “I hate that I still care.”

“You don’t hate caring,” she corrected softly. “You hate that you cared for someone who couldn’t choose you.”

That hit hard because it was true.

Then Tiana said, “I think you should see the campus counselor.”

My instinct was to refuse. Therapy felt dramatic. Like admitting defeat. Like telling the world I was weak.

“I don’t need therapy for a breakup,” I muttered.

Tiana didn’t let me hide. “Pain is pain. Stop comparing yours to other people’s. And I’ve been in therapy for years. It helps. Let it help you.”

Two days later, I filled out the campus counseling form with shaking hands.

Reason for appointment: “relationship issues.”

I hit submit and immediately wanted to pull the words back out of the internet.

But a week later, I sat in the waiting room picking at my cuticles until my name was called.

The therapist—Dr. Lane—was younger than I expected. Early thirties, hair in a bun, calm eyes. She didn’t look like someone who’d judge me for being heartbroken.

She just asked, “What brought you in?”

I opened my mouth to explain and started crying within five minutes.

Then I apologized for crying.

Then I cried about apologizing.

Dr. Lane handed me tissues like this was normal—like I wasn’t embarrassing myself.

“Grief is grief,” she said. “A relationship ending is a loss. There’s no timeline and no right way to feel.”

I left the session feeling raw and lighter at the same time—like I’d been holding a weight in my chest and someone finally helped me set it down for a minute.

7. Reclaiming Thursdays and Remembering I Had a Life

That week, Matthew texted me.

Lunch? Haven’t seen you in a while.

Matthew was tricky because he’d been Jerome’s friend first, and I’d always worried that hanging out with him would come with unspoken Jerome updates.

But I stared at the message and realized something ugly:

I’d been letting Jerome take my friendships too.

So I said yes.

Lunch was surprisingly normal. We complained about professors and cafeteria food and the general suffering of being a student with a fragile mental state.

Matthew didn’t mention Jerome until I did.

“Do you guys still talk?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Matthew nodded. “Sometimes.”

My chest tightened. “Is he… with Brianna?”

Matthew lifted a hand. “I’m not doing messenger stuff. I’m friends with both of you. I’m not taking sides and I’m not reporting back.”

To my surprise, I respected it.

He leaned forward slightly. “But I will say… we miss you at game night.”

I blinked. “Game night?”

“Thursdays,” he said. “Student center. Cards. Pizza. Chaos. You stopped coming.”

I hadn’t even realized how much I’d withdrawn until he said it out loud.

Matthew added quickly, “Jerome hasn’t been coming either. So it won’t be weird.”

I hesitated.

The old me wanted to avoid everything that reminded me of him. But avoiding was turning my world smaller and smaller.

So the next Thursday, I showed up.

I almost turned around at the door. My stomach was doing backflips. My brain was screaming that everyone would stare, that I’d be “the girl who got dumped.”

But then Matthew waved, and someone shoved a controller into my hand, and nobody mentioned Jerome.

We played cards. We laughed at stupid jokes. We ate too much pizza.

For two hours, I felt normal in a way I hadn’t felt in months.

Walking home, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

And I realized: Jerome didn’t own these spaces.

I did.

8. The Gym, the New People, and the First Glimpse of a Future

One morning, I woke up before my alarm and didn’t immediately think of Jerome.

That alone felt like winning the lottery.

I pulled on old workout clothes and went to the campus gym at 6 a.m.—something I’d always wanted to do, but Jerome “wasn’t a morning person,” and I’d molded my life around his preferences without realizing it.

The gym was quiet. A few runners, a few lifters, the hum of machines.

I got on an elliptical and moved for thirty minutes with my headphones in, focusing only on breath and sweat and the steady rhythm that didn’t leave room for heartbreak.

It felt… good.

By Friday, I’d gone three times.

That morning I ran into Kellen from biology by the water fountain. He looked surprised to see me.

“Didn’t know you were a morning gym person,” he said.

“I didn’t either,” I admitted, laughing.

We talked about the genetics unit like it was the most important drama in the world. When we said goodbye, I realized I was smiling.

A tiny thing.

But tiny things were how you built yourself back.

9. The Photo That Knocked Me Back and the Sister Who Dragged Me Out

Then, of course, the universe tested me.

Saturday afternoon, Valerie walked into my room holding her phone like it was radioactive.

“I don’t know if you want to see this,” she said carefully.

I knew immediately it was Jerome-related. Part of me wanted to scream no.

But curiosity is a cruel drug.

I took the phone.

A mutual friend’s post. Jerome and Brianna at a restaurant. Jerome laughing.

My chest tightened so hard I felt sick.

I handed the phone back and forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

Valerie’s expression said she didn’t believe me for a second.

I spent the rest of the weekend in bed. Barely ate. Ignored texts. Replayed the photo like it was a crime scene.

By Monday, I was deep in self-pity.

That’s when my bedroom door flew open and Tiana marched in like a one-woman SWAT team.

“Get up,” she said.

I groaned. “No.”

She yanked the covers off me. “You’re leaving this bed.”

“I don’t want—”

“Not a discussion,” she said, already grabbing my hoodie. “You can have a bad day. You can’t live in them.”

She dragged me to a salon and got my hair trimmed while I sat there numb.

Then she took me to lunch at my favorite sandwich place and forced me to eat half a turkey sandwich like it was medicine.

“You’re allowed to be sad,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to abandon yourself.”

The words hit me in the ribs.

Because that’s what I’d been doing—abandoning myself to stay connected to the ghost of Jerome.

10. The Homework That Changed Everything: Barcelona

In therapy, Dr. Lane asked me a question that rewired something in my brain.

“Are you mourning Jerome,” she said, “or the future you imagined with him?”

I stared at her.

Because I’d never separated the two.

“I… I don’t know,” I admitted.

Dr. Lane nodded. “A lot of heartbreak is grief for the story you were living in your head. The apartment you planned. The trips. The holidays. The version of yourself who thought everything worked out.”

My throat tightened.

She was right. I wasn’t devastated about losing Jerome’s habits or his laugh.

I was devastated about losing the framework I’d built my future on.

That night, I opened a notebook and started listing things I wanted that had nothing to do with Jerome or dating.

Pottery class. Study abroad. Books I’d never read. A summer internship abroad.

Barcelona popped into my head like a dare.

I’d always wanted to travel. Jerome never wanted to leave the state. He’d call it “impractical.” He’d say, “Maybe later.”

Later never came.

So I searched internship programs and found one in Barcelona.

The deadline was close enough to make my stomach flip.

I stared at the application like it was a door out of my old life.

And then Kellen—sweet, oblivious Kellen—made it harder for me to talk myself out of it.

He talked about studying abroad in Australia with his whole face lit up like sunrise.

“Sometimes you just take the risk,” he said, shrugging like it was easy. “You figure out the details later.”

So I applied.

The night of the deadline, at 11:59, I hit submit and slammed my laptop shut like the decision might escape if I looked at it too long.

My hands shook.

Valerie hugged me. “I’m proud of you,” she said.

And for the first time in months, I felt proud of me too.

11. The Email That Made Me Scream

Two days later, I got an email:

Video interview request.

I screamed so loud Valerie thought something terrible had happened.

Then we both screamed because it wasn’t terrible—it was real.

They wanted to interview me.

Barcelona wasn’t just a fantasy anymore.

The week leading up to the interview, I worked harder than I had all semester. I practiced answers out loud. I cleaned my room so my background looked professional. I looked up neighborhoods and metro lines and learned how to pronounce “Barcelona” without sounding like an American tourist.

During the interview, the interviewer—Clara, ironically—asked why I wanted the position.

I didn’t say the whole truth—that I wanted to be somewhere Jerome had never been, somewhere the air didn’t smell like old memories.

But I said the true part:

“I want to challenge myself. I want to grow in a new environment. I want to be uncomfortable on purpose, because comfort kept me small.”

Clara smiled like she understood more than I’d said.

When the interview ended, I sat on my bed and exhaled like I’d been underwater.

Whatever happened next, I’d shown up as myself.

Not Jerome’s girlfriend.

Just me.

12. Brianna in the Produce Section

The week after, I saw Brianna at the grocery store.

I was grabbing basics—eggs, pasta, cheap coffee—when I spotted her in the produce aisle holding an apple like she was deciding the fate of the world.

My heart started racing.

That old panic rose in my chest.

My instinct was to turn around and leave.

But something else—something newer—made me stay.

I grabbed what I needed and walked past her aisle.

She looked up and our eyes met.

Her expression shifted to guilt. Regret. Something complicated.

She opened her mouth like she wanted to speak.

I nodded politely.

And kept walking.

My hands shook at checkout, but I felt powerful.

Because the old me would’ve stopped. Would’ve asked questions. Would’ve tried to extract information about Jerome like it was oxygen.

But I didn’t.

I chose my peace over my curiosity.

In therapy, Dr. Lane called it “a boundary victory.”

I called it “finally putting myself first.”

13. The Offer That Made Jerome a Footnote

Two weeks later, I was in the library studying for finals when my phone buzzed.

Barcelona summer internship program.

I opened the email and read the first line three times before it registered.

They were offering me the position.

I had to leave the quiet study section because I was crying and laughing like a maniac.

Outside in the cold, I called Tiana first.

She screamed so loudly I held the phone away from my ear.

Then I called my parents. My mom cried. My dad made a joke about me coming back with an accent.

And my mom said something that stuck:

“I’m proud of you for choosing an adventure.”

Not choosing a boy.

Not choosing what was safe.

Choosing me.

That night, for the first time, Jerome felt smaller in my story.

Not because he hadn’t mattered.

But because he wasn’t the main plot anymore.

14. When Jerome “Asked About Me”

At game night, Matthew pulled me aside.

“Jerome asked about you,” he said, hesitant.

Everyone at the table went quiet like they expected me to crumble.

Instead, my first emotion was… annoyance.

Like—no.

You don’t get to check on me like a casual acquaintance after leaving me alone on our anniversary.

Matthew added quickly, “I didn’t tell him much. Just that you’re doing fine.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

Walking home, I thought about Jerome being curious.

And for the first time, the thought didn’t feel like hope.

It felt like consequences.

Good.

Let him wonder.

15. The Last Conversation

The last week before I left for Barcelona, I went back to the coffee shop—the same one where I’d seen his car months earlier and felt my healing crack.

I was finishing paperwork when the bell over the door chimed.

I looked up.

Jerome.

Same red jacket. Same backpack. Same face I used to know like a second language.

My heart did a small flutter—but it felt more like a reflex than desire.

He saw me and paused.

Then he walked over.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” I replied.

He gestured to the chair. “Can I sit for a minute?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

He sat carefully, like he didn’t trust the floor not to collapse.

We made small talk—classes, finals, weather.

Then he cleared his throat.

“I heard about Barcelona,” he said.

I watched his face. He looked… sincere. Not performative.

“Yeah,” I said. “I got the internship.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, and the warmth in his voice sounded real. “I’m happy for you.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence.

Jerome’s fingers tapped lightly on his cup.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About… how I handled things.”

I didn’t rush to forgive. I didn’t punish him either. I just let the words exist.

“It hurt,” I said plainly.

He nodded, eyes down. “I know.”

Another pause.

He looked up at me then. “Are you… okay?”

I felt the old version of me—the one who would’ve confessed everything, who would’ve begged for closure, who would’ve asked if he was with Brianna now.

Instead, I said the truth.

“I’m getting there,” I said. “And I’m excited.”

Jerome swallowed. “Good.”

We sat for another minute, the air between us filled with the weight of what we’d been and what we weren’t anymore.

Then Jerome stood.

“I really am happy for you,” he said. “You deserve it.”

I nodded once. “I know.”

He flinched slightly—like the confidence surprised him.

Then he gave a small, sad smile and walked out.

When the door closed behind him, I didn’t cry.

I didn’t spiral.

I didn’t check my phone.

I just sat there, breathing, feeling something unfamiliar settle in my chest.

Acceptance.

16. Barcelona

On the plane, I pressed my face to the window as the city shrank below me.

The airport became toy-sized. Cars became dots. Streets became lines.

Then clouds swallowed everything, and for a second I felt like I was between worlds—between the girl who got left and the woman who chose herself.

I ordered a ginger ale and opened my guidebook to neighborhoods in Barcelona.

My hands still shook, but not from grief.

From excitement.

The first week in Barcelona was a blur—new streets, unfamiliar language, wrong turns, sun on ancient buildings that looked like they’d been waiting for me.

I made friends with interns from Brazil and Germany and Australia.

I sent Valerie and Tiana a million photos: beaches, crooked alleys, tiny cafés, plates of tapas that made my campus ramen days feel like a different lifetime.

My Spanish was terrible, but the woman at the café near my apartment smiled patiently as I butchered my order.

Every morning, I woke up excited—not because a boy might text me, but because the day belonged to me.

One evening, I stood on my tiny balcony at sunset.

The sky turned pink and gold over the city. People moved below like music—laughing, talking, living.

And I thought about the girl I’d been three months after the breakup—sitting in bed, convinced losing Jerome meant losing my future.

I wasn’t completely healed. I still had moments of sadness that came out of nowhere.

But I wasn’t waiting anymore.

I wasn’t checking.

I wasn’t begging the past to choose me.

I was building a future that didn’t require someone else’s certainty.

I was choosing myself.

And that—more than anything Jerome could’ve ever given me—felt like freedom.

THE END