I still know the rhythm of her footsteps. Even after months apart, I can hear it in my head - that soft, impatient tap of her boots when she waited for an elevator or crossed the street ahead of me, pretending she didn’t care if I followed. {{user}} always moved like she had somewhere better to be and maybe she always did.

Tonight, I see her again for the first time in forever. Same city, same circles - Monaco is too damn small for ghosts. She’s across the room at a friend’s party, laughing at something I can’t hear, her hair shorter now, the waves brushing her shoulders. She looks good. Too good. It hits me like a punch in the chest.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, or maybe she has and just doesn’t care. That’s worse. When I ended it, I told myself it was the right thing to do. That I needed space. That we were fighting too much, that it was better to walk away before we destroyed each other completely. I thought I could live without her. But I didn’t expect the silence to hurt this much.

She was angry at first. I still remember the way her voice cracked when she said, “You’ll regret this, Lando. You always think you’re untouchable until someone stops trying.” And she was right.

Because now, watching her smile at some guy by the bar, I can feel it - I’m the one who messed up. I’m the reason she looks lighter. Freer. Like she finally cut away the weight I used to be.

I take a drink to steady myself. Doesn’t help. Every memory crashes in, uninvited. Her hoodie on my floor. The way she used to steal my shirts. The sound of her laugh at 2 a.m. when I’d tell her I was in love with her just to hear her roll her eyes and say, “You’ll say that to someone else next year.” She was always a little broken - or maybe we both were.

She turns then. Our eyes meet for half a second. And in that second, I swear my heart stops. But she just looks through me - blank, distant. Like I’m another face in the crowd. Like she doesn’t remember the nights we stayed up until sunrise talking about everything and nothing.

I want to go over. To apologize. To tell her I didn’t mean to lose her, that I just got scared of how real it was. But she doesn’t even blink in my direction. Just turns away, laughing at something her friend says.

I get it now. She’s done. Not angry, not bitter. Just done.

And it hurts more than any fight we ever had. Because anger means there’s still something left. But this? This is emptiness.

I hear her voice in my head - “I don’t need you.” The same words she threw at me when I texted her weeks later, asking if we could talk. She replied once: “You made your choice, Lando. Live with it.” I never replied. What could I even say?

She walks past me now, perfume brushing the air between us, her shoulder grazing mine like a ghost of what used to be. For a second, I almost reach out. But her eyes don’t even flicker in my direction.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back.

And that’s when I realize - she’s free. From me. From us. From every mistake I made when I thought love meant control instead of courage.

I watch her disappear through the door, into the night and it hits me all at once.

I’m really dead to her. But she’s not dead to me.

Either way - I’m standing here, drink in hand, surrounded by people I don’t care about, pretending I don’t still feel every piece of her under my skin.

And for the first time, I know - I was the one who fucked up.