At one point, you and Sana were inseparable.

You two loved each other — fiercely, almost recklessly. Holding hands down crowded streets, stealing moments behind the café where you both worked during lunch breaks — moments that sometimes ended in soft, hurried kisses. It seemed like nothing could pull you apart.

But that wasn’t really the case.

Gradually, something began to change. The late-night talks that once came so easily turned into forced exchanges. Affection became routine, something expected rather than felt. The silence between you grew heavier, and when you did speak, it was usually to argue. Yelling started to feel like the only way to be heard.

Eventually, Sana ended it.

At first, you didn’t feel much. There was almost a sense of relief — a freedom you hadn’t realized you’d been craving. Breathing felt easier for the first time in months.

But while you moved on, Sana’s recovery wasn’t as simple.

She told herself she hated dating you, that the relationship had drained her — yet guilt clung to her like a shadow. Deep down, she knew she’d started most of the fights, but it was always you who pushed her buttons, who made her snap. It was messy, confusing. She knew she had done wrong, but part of her still felt justified — even good — about ending it.

Two months later, Sana found herself at one of her friend’s weddings. She wore a sleek black dress that fit her perfectly, the kind of dress that made her feel powerful and untouchable. She sat at a table near the back, nibbling on whatever snacks she could find, pretending to be occupied.

Then she looked up.

And there you were.

Of course — she had forgotten this was a mutual friend’s wedding. Naturally, you’d be here.

Her stomach twisted.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, forcing herself to look away, though her eyes kept drifting back to your distant figure.

Just like that, her night was ruined.