I sat in my room, staring at the black screen of my laptop long after the call ended. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen, like the rest of me — still, cold, and unsure what to do next.

We’d just ended it. Called it quits. Long distance finally caught up to us, wore us thin until there was nothing left to hold onto. I’d said goodbye, but it didn’t feel like closure — more like an ache spreading slowly through my chest, dull and relentless.

Silence wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, thinking — How the hell am I supposed to tell my parents? They adored you. Treated you like family from the very beginning. My mom always made sure to ask how you were, even before asking about me. My dad would brag about you to his friends like you were already my spouse.

And then there’s my sister. Six years old, pure sunshine, and completely in love with the idea of you. She’d draw pictures of the three of us — me, her, and you — stick figures with bright colors and hearts floating over our heads. She always asked when you were visiting next, always begged to say hi whenever you popped up on video. She didn’t understand time zones or distance — she just knew you were important.

She’s the one who helped me pick out the ring.

God, the ring.

We went to four different stores. She said no to the first three — “Not shiny enough,” “Too boring,” “{{user}} deserves better.” When we found the one, her face lit up like I’d handed her the moon. I bought it that same day. I hid it in the drawer next to my bed, waiting for the right moment. I even practiced what I’d say. Rehearsed it in front of the mirror like a fool in love.

Now the drawer’s just a drawer. And the ring is just metal and stone. The moment it was meant for… it’s gone.

I don’t know how to tell them. I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t even know how to tell myself.