SHE’S NOT HERE.

The cafeteria is bustling with students, full of chatter and noise and so, so vacant of her. Not like it’s unusual—she seldom eats with us in the lunch hall and more so in the music classroom, but without a fail, she buys a snack from the vending machine every day. Whether it’s a packet of oatmeal cookies, a cereal bar, or a Mars bar before her period comes (yes, I know. I’m pathetic for still knowing that), she never skips a day of the vending machine ritual. Even if it’s just a bootle of water.

But today, she is not standing in the line, and there’s no way she bought herself the snack and left before I got here. Because I would’ve seen her.

Why do I still care? a bitter, heartbroken voice appears in my head.

And fuck me if I know why, I just do. No matter that we broke up months ago. It was a misunderstanding, a matter of miscommunication.

God knows I shouldn’t care.

Good thing I stopped believing long ago.

So, before I could even think any better of it, I get up and leg it towards the music room, ignoring my friends’ questions.

The corridor feels longer than it should, like the walls are stretching, the floorboards dragging me back. My head is screaming at me to turn around, to stop being pathetic, to stop chasing something that doesn’t belong to me anymore. But my legs—they don’t listen. They move faster, like they’ve got their own agenda. Like they’ve been waiting for an excuse.

By the time I reach the music wing, my chest is tight. Not from running, but from something else. Something worse. The door’s cracked open, and that’s when I hear it.

Her voice.

It slices right through me. Not gentle, not background noise—it’s raw and trembling and real. She’s singing, and I know instantly it’s about us. I don’t even need the words to confirm it, but when they do—Jesus.

When I walk in the kitchen, my heart hits the floor…

It’s like someone’s taken a scalpel to my ribs. She’s at the piano, head bent low, fingers moving like she’s pouring her whole chest cavity into the keys. And I just stand there in the doorway, useless, listening to the life I ruined being spun into lyrics.

I shouldn’t listen. It’s private. Sacred. It’s not for me anymore. But I can’t move. I’m nailed to the floor, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders as she leans into the song, the way her voice cracks when she hits strangers, to lovers, to enemies.

God. That line. That’s us in seven words.

I press my palm against the doorframe, like it’ll steady me, but it doesn’t. My throat burns. My heart’s somewhere near my shoes. I want to be angry at her for writing this, for making me hear it. But really, I’m only angry at myself—for every silence, every wrong word, every time I chose pride instead of her.

Her voice dips softer, into the part about deleting playlists, about not being able to erase the memories. And I’m dragged back—her curled on my bed, iPod in her hands, telling me to shut up while she added another stupid song to our playlist. Me pretending to hate it but secretly saving every second in the back of my brain.

The song swells. She’s nearly at the end. My body leans forward like it’s trying to get closer without my permission, like I’m still tethered to her somehow.

And then, as the last note fades, she finally looks up.

Right at me.

Her hands freeze above the keys, suspended like the whole world just stopped breathing with her. And for a second, neither of us says anything. Just silence thick enough to choke on.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says finally, voice quiet, rough around the edges from singing.

“I know,” I rasp back. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “But you weren’t where you were supposed to be, either.”

Her eyes narrow, guarded. “Why do you care?”

And I wish I had a better answer. A clever one. Something that might untangle this mess we made. But all I can do is tell her the truth, ugly and bare.

“Because I still do.”