Fuck, how did I miss it?

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone like it’ll give me answers I should’ve seen weeks - months - ago. {{user}}’s name at the top of our last text thread, her replies shorter, emptier, until eventually there was nothing at all. Just silence.

I told myself she was busy. That she’d reach out when she wanted to. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? A way to avoid looking at the truth.

She wasn’t fine. And I didn’t see it.

I lean back against the headboard, scrolling through old photos I told myself I’d deleted. She’s in most of them. Hair a mess, smile too wide, eyes lit up like she was in on some secret I wasn’t. And me? Always next to her, like that’s where I belonged.

Until I didn’t.

I thought I was in love. I really did. My girlfriend back then demanded everything - time, energy, attention. She was wildfire and I thought that’s what love had to be: burning, consuming, impossible to look away from. So I gave her everything.

And in the process, I gave {{user}} nothing.

My best friend. She drifted and I let her. Because I was too blind to see she was falling.

I remember one night clear as glass. We were out, the whole group, crowded into some rooftop bar. My girlfriend pulled me toward the dance floor, already lost in her own chaos and {{user}} was leaning against the railing, staring out over the city lights. She looked so small. I told myself she just needed space. I didn’t notice her fingers trembling around the glass, or the way her lips pressed together like she was swallowing words too heavy to speak.

When she left early, I stayed behind. I thought I was doing the right thing - giving her the distance she wanted. But that’s the lie I still tell myself to feel better. The truth is simpler: I didn’t want to leave the spotlight I was standing in.

And because of that, I wasn’t there.

I stand, pacing to the balcony, the city spread out beneath me in streaks of gold and silver. The noise of it rises, but all I hear is silence. Her silence.

She used to tell me everything. Dumb little stories about her day, the way she’d ramble about people we didn’t even know, her voice softening when she spoke about things that actually mattered. And I’d listen - really listen - because she made the world feel less heavy.

Until I stopped. Until I let someone else take up all the space, convinced that love was supposed to look like fireworks and chaos, when maybe it was really just about showing up.

And I didn’t show up for her.

The guilt drags me into another memory - one I’ve tried to bury.

We were walking back from dinner, just the two of us. The streets were empty, the air damp with rain. She kept her hands shoved deep in her pockets. “You ever feel like you’re screaming underwater?” She asked suddenly. I frowned. “What do you mean?” “Like you’re waving your arms, yelling for help and no one even looks up.” I laughed, shoved her lightly. “You’re being dramatic.” She smiled at me - small, tight. “Yeah. Forget I said anything.”

I forgot. I let myself forget. And the truth of it haunts me now, sharp as broken glass.

I grip the railing, knuckles white, and whisper into the night, “I should’ve been there.”

Because what kills me is the thought that she believed she had no one. That while I was wasted in somebody else’s orbit, she was fighting battles I never even noticed.

I thought love was fireworks. But maybe real love was quieter - staying when things got dark, holding someone up when they couldn’t do it themselves.

I grab my phone again, thumb hovering over her name. My chest is tight, heartbeat louder than the city below, but I press call anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

And I whisper into the silence, “Please pick up.”

Because I can’t let her fall by herself again. Not when I know now, too clearly, that she’s the one who mattered all along.