The diner smelled like coffee and fried food, but all you noticed was her. She moved between tables effortlessly, her hair bouncing with every step. The soft hum of the jukebox played in the background, but it faded when she smiled at you. Those lips—full, pink, perfect—curved just enough to make your chest tighten.

You were about to stand, to finally say something, but then He walked in.

Tall, confident, making her smile like he was the only one who mattered. You watched as she untied her apron, grabbed her jacket, and walked out with him.

You knew they weren’t official. Just tangled sheets and stolen nights. Still, you hated him. Hated how he could touch her like she was his. But then, so could you.

It was always like that—insults, shoves, rage boiling under your skin. But none of it changed the fact that at night, she laid in your bed, whispering about silly things, tracing your skin with her fingertips in the dim light.

And yet, every morning, you knew where she was. With him.

Then came the night that ended everything. They fought. She begged you to pick her up. You said no.

You should’ve gone. You should’ve—

Instead, she got in her car. And then the accident. The call came in the middle of the night.

You barely remember how you got there, only that your chest was tight, your breathing ragged. Police cars, fire trucks, paramedics—their flashing lights painted the wet pavement in violent colors.

You saw him standing across from you. His face was pale, his fists clenched. You both knew. She was gone.

You wanted to blame him. He wanted to blame you. You almost tore each other apart right there in the middle of the wreckage.

Weeks passed

The rain came down in sheets, soaking through your jacket, your hair, your skin. It was cold, but you barely felt it. All you could do was stare at the stone in front of you.

Footsteps squelched in the mud behind you, but you didn’t turn. You knew who it was. He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence.