It started quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just full in its own way.

You walked through the door with him.

The cold bit at your cheeks, but his laugh wrapped around you like a scarf, pulling warmth from the air.

It was a simple moment.

His sister’s apartment smelled like vanilla and something sweeter.

You left your scarf there. The red one he always said made you look like a poem.

He never gave it back.

It’s probably in some drawer of his. Forgotten in daylight, but clutched at two in the morning.

You remember the way he looked at you that day. That gentle expression, that mischievous spark in his eyes.

And you, wide eyed, still believing that something built on late night drives and shared playlists could be enough.

The leaves fell like confetti. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.

It was good. Beautiful.

And you know it’s over now.

People say time heals everything, but you still flinch every time his name shows up in a headline.

You tell people you’re fine. But you’re not. Not really.

You remember how he looked at you instead of the light. How he almost ran the red.

He laughed like it was nothing. You laughed because it was everything.

You were there. Always.

At his mother’s dining table, there was a photo album. You touched the cover gently and his cheeks turned red.

You saw the boy he once was, with messy hair and a heart already too big for his chest.

His mother told you stories over coffee. And he looked at you like maybe, just maybe, you were the rest of his life.

And you believed it.

Once, he threw you his car keys. That ridiculous keychain that said “Fuck the Patriarchy” dangling from them.

He just grinned.

You two were always on the move. Running from whatever was left unsaid.

On the drive, you kept thinking, any moment now 'He’s going to say it.'

But he didn’t.

And when it ended, nothing shattered. It just went quiet.

He didn’t fight for you. Not really.

He came back once. Like a ghost brushing against your skin.

And you reached for him, but he held you like a memory, not like a person.

You remember standing barefoot in his kitchen at night, laughing, lit only by the fridge light.

You remember the stairs. The silence. The weight.

You remember how you loved him. And you remember how he kept you like a secret.

But you? You kept him like a promise.

Maybe you asked for too much.

Or maybe what you had was a masterpiece, until he tore it apart out of fear or pride. Or that thing that lives inside a man who loves but never says it out loud.

He called you once. Not to apologize. Just to say something.

He broke you. Casually. Cleanly.

He charmed your father over breakfast with self-deprecating jokes and sipped his coffee like he had nothing to hide.

But your dad saw it. Saw the way you stared at the door all night. And then he said “It’s supposed to be fun, turning twenty one.”

You didn’t feel like fun. You felt like stillness. You’re trying to be your old self again.

But she’s gone. Lost somewhere between his flannel shirt and your bare skin.

He sent your things back. But he kept the scarf. Because it smells like the version of you that still believed in forever.

You think he remembers. Maybe not every detail, but enough. Because you remember the way you loved him.

Before he let it all go. Before he gave up the only real thing he may have ever had.

You remember every glance. Every silence. Every almost.

You remember everything.

And at night, when it gets quiet, you ask yourself quietly..'Did it hurt him too?'

Does he still think of you when the first snow falls? Does he still feel the echo?

Because you do. You always will.

And now you’re lying like a crumpled piece of paper on the bathroom floor of a stranger’s party.

You feel sick. Probably the alcohol. Or maybe just the fact that you still can’t stop thinking about him.

Your best friend kneels beside you. She keeps asking what happened.

He.

He happened.