I thought I still loved Lizzie.

Maybe because she was familiar.

Maybe because I felt her before I knew what love even was. Maybe because we had this weird, unfinished thing from years ago, and she always came back around when it was convenient—for her.

And when she did, I let her.

Not physically, not completely—but enough. Enough to make {{user}} look at me with that hollowed-out kind of hurt, like she already knew what decision I was making before I did.

It wasn’t cheating.

But it felt like it when she stopped texting back.

When she skipped the party she was supposed to come to.

When I saw her in the back of someone else’s car, trying too hard to laugh at a joke that wasn’t funny. Looking everywhere but at me.

And that’s when it hit me:

I’d already lost her.

I didn’t even realize how much I needed her until the silence settled in.

Until her name stopped showing up on my screen.

Until my bed felt too big and my days felt too long and Lizzie kissed me and I felt—nothing.

She wasn’t her.

Lizzie didn’t know how I took my coffee.

Didn’t steal the aux cord and hum off-key to every song.

Didn’t fight me just to win, then crawl into my arms two minutes later like she hadn’t just ruined my whole day and made me love her even more for it.

{{user}} did all that.

And I let her go.

So I started trying.

At first, it was stupid things.

Showing up at the same places. Texts with no replies. Standing outside her class like I had any right.

Then it got worse. More desperate.

She’d be talking to some guy at her locker and I’d suddenly have to walk past, shoulder-checking him a little too hard.

She’d laugh at someone’s joke and I’d want to tear the walls down. One time I saw her hand brush someone’s arm and I nearly lost my goddamn mind.

Jealousy wasn’t new to me. But heartbreak? This specific kind—of losing something I didn’t protect when I should have?

That was mine to carry now.

Months passed. I didn’t stop trying.

I’d leave notes in her locker when I knew she was avoiding me.

I’d get quiet when her name came up, not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much.

I asked her friends if she was okay. I tried to show up for her without her ever asking.

I knew what people said behind my back. That I let her slip through my fingers. That I deserved it. That she was better off.

But I didn’t care.

Because I’d made the wrong choice. And she was the only one that ever made me want to be better.

The next time I saw her sitting alone on the bleachers, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the sky grey and cold above her, I didn’t hesitate.

I walked up.

I sat beside her.

And for once, I didn’t say anything clever. I didn’t make it a joke. I just turned to her, heart beating like it might break again right there in front of her, and whispered:

“I chose wrong.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t look at me.

“I thought I still felt something for Lizzie because… she was a part of my past. But you—” I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat, “—you were becoming my future. And I fucked that up.”

She blinked fast. Her knuckles turned white where she held her sleeve.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me now,” I said. “Or even tomorrow. But I need you to know that I see it now. I see you. And I’ve been trying to be the guy you deserve every day since.”

Finally, her eyes met mine.

And I swear—for a second—I saw the flicker of the girl who used to kiss me like she was falling, like I was the ground.