Three months.

That’s how long it’s been since she let go of my hand like it didn’t mean anything. Since she stood in front of me, eyes glassy and mouth trembling, and told me she wasn’t ready. Or maybe wouldn’t ever be.

And I believed her.

What else was I supposed to do? Argue with someone who didn’t want to spend the rest of their life with me?

So I got up from one knee, put the ring back in my pocket, and walked out of that restaurant with everyone’s eyes on me and my stomach in knots. I didn’t look back. Not at her. Not at the people whispering. I didn’t want to see any of it.

Nobody talked about it after. At least not to me. But I heard the whispers. I always did.

"She would’ve made a beautiful bride." "Poor Jason."

Like I was dying or something. Like my heart had flatlined. Some days, it felt like it had.

And now—just like that—there she was. One meter away.

Standing at a coffee cart like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t shattered me in public and walked away with every piece. Red scarf snug around her neck. Hair longer than it was back then, falling over her shoulders like always. Still has that soft look to her, like she’s made of something quieter than the rest of the world. Something gentler.

I told myself to move. Turn around. Keep walking. Pretend like I didn’t see her.

But I didn’t. I just stood there like an idiot with my hands in my pockets and the wind going straight through me. She paid for her coffee and muffins. Shifted to the side. Let the next person order. All of it so normal. So casual. Like we weren’t standing in the same universe where she’d told me no.

And then— She looked up.

Her eyes found mine. And everything stuttered.

She didn’t look shocked. Not really. More like unsure. Like she didn’t know if she should say something. Like she wasn’t sure she had the right anymore.