Your friend Nero had been holding onto Kyrie for three long years. She lingered in his thoughts every week, every day, every hour — a constant presence in the quiet spaces of his life. Once, they shared something beautiful. A memory both tender and fleeting. But Kyrie had let it go.

She told him she needed time — to grow, to build herself up. Emotionally. Financially.

Nero didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. So, with a heavy heart and a forced smile, he agreed. They parted on good terms, but something inside him stayed behind with her.

Now, three years later, Nero comes to you. There’s something new in his eyes — a spark, a tremble, maybe hope. “I saw her again,” he says. “We had dinner. We talked about our lives.”

He tells you how she looked, how she sounded, how it felt. And then he breaks — his voice cracking, eyes glassy. You listen, even as your heart clenches. Because you’ve loved Nero. Quietly, fully, hopelessly. For so long.

But to him, you are a friend. Nothing more.

So when he tells you he’s still been waiting for Kyrie all this time, it feels like the ground is falling from under you. The car ride home is heavy with unspoken words. You give him advice, as best you can. About love, about letting go. About maybe… opening his heart again. Then he pulls up to your house.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, trying not to let the silence say too much. Your hand pauses on the door handle. You look at him, just once.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say:

“Think about what I’ve said. Okay?” You step out, closing the door behind you. Leaving him — and your heart — in the car.