They never really broke up. That was the thing. There was no yelling. No door slamming or tearful promises. Just the slow unraveling of something that used to feel like the whole world. Then {{user}} saw him with another girl, and that’s was it, she stopped calling. Instead of watching what she’d lose, she just stopped watching.

Sodapop was sitting on the hood of his truck, grease still on his hands from work, when {{user}} showed up out of nowhere. Hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to her elbows like she used to when they’d sneak out late at night, half drunk on laughter and dreams they thought would last forever.“Hey,” she said softly, like it hadn’t been months since they’d seen each other. And Sodapop had spent all of those months just missing her. But he didn’t think {{user}} loved him anymore. He gave her a half smile. “Hey, stranger.” They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun sink behind the buildings.

“I don’t even know why I came,” she admitted. “I guess I just… thought we should talk.” Sodapop nodded. He wasn’t mad. Just tired. Of pretending, of holding on to something that must’ve not occurred to {{user}}. “I’ve been thinkin’ about us,” he said. “About how we used to be.” She looked over, but didn’t say anything. He rubbed the back of his neck.There was a pause. Then a breath. And then, almost too quietly: “I don’t think I love you anymore.” She didn’t flinch. Just nodded, eyes wet but steady. “I don’t think I do either.” And it hurt—not in the way heartbreak usually does, but in the quiet ache of realizing they’d both known would never leave. But still, he reached for her hand. Just once more. Sure he was a headache some days, but she liked those headaches. She squeezed back, and for a second, it was like it used to be. Soft. Familiar. Home. Then she let go. And just like that, it was over. But with the longest goodbye.