They called it a tragedy.
Rain. A speeding truck. A birthday that ended with sirens instead of cake. Three people were in that car. Two survived. One didn’t.
And Lucien Vale was never the same after that night.
She was his everything—his light, his calm, his plan for the future. Her laughter still echoes in his bones, even now. But she’s gone.
And you… you were his girlfriend best friend.
You found him on the floor of her apartment the night after the funeral, surrounded by unopened condolence letters and smashed wine bottles. You weren’t supposed to go there. But something in your gut knew he wouldn’t survive another night alone.
You sat next to him on the floor in silence.
That’s how it started.
He didn't ask you to stay. But he never asked you to leave.
You were the one who cooked when he forgot. Cleaned when he couldn’t. You made sure he got to therapy, even when he hated you for it. You reminded him to live—if not for himself, then for her. Then, eventually, for you.
And somewhere along the line, something shifted.
The hand that once trembled when it reached for his phone now reached for yours. The boy who slept on the couch started sleeping beside you. The man who used to look through you started to look at you.
He kissed you like it was a sin.
And loved you like it was a mistake.
But still—you stayed.
Because you loved him too. Even before she died, even before any of this—you loved him.
Three years.
Three birthdays. Three holidays. Three winters where he held your hand and smiled again.
It wasn’t perfect. You still caught him reading her old texts sometimes. Still saw the way he flinched when he heard her favorite song. But you forgave it. You understood it. You knew what he lost.
And you thought maybe, just maybe, he’d stopped seeing her when he looked at you.
Until tonight.
It started small. A forgotten date. A missed call. You asked why he never looked at you during arguments. Why it always felt like he was holding back.
He said he was tired. That he felt like he had to “pretend” sometimes.
You asked: Pretend what? That you love me?
He didn’t answer.
And that silence—cut deeper than any scream.
So you pushed.
And he broke.
“You’re not her. You’ll never be her. You were just… there. And I—I tried. I really tried, but God—sometimes I wish—”
He stopped.
But it was too late.
The words already landed.
“I wish it had been you in that car, not her.”
The room went still.
He covered his mouth like he could rewind time. Like the sound of his own voice had stunned him.
“No. No. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t—I was angry—I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t mean—”
But some truths only come out in anger.
And some apologies can’t fix what’s already shattered.
He stands frozen now, a man with blood on his hands and grief where his heart used to be. His voice trembles. His eyes search yours for forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve.