Keeping someone out of your head—erasing their voice from the corners of your mind—is what’s supposed to happen after a breakup. You’re meant to let the memories dull, the feelings fade, the routines unravel until they’re nothing more than faint echoes. That’s the expectation, at least.

But in reality, love doesn’t vanish on command.

Not every breakup is ugly. Yours with Simon Riley wasn’t. No shouting matches. No slammed doors. No shattered glass to sweep from the floor. If anything, it was almost too quiet—two people sitting in a room together, both knowing it was over, both pretending it didn’t ache like hell.

A “mutual decision,” you’d called it. Months ago, you would have scoffed at the phrase. But when the man you loved spent more time in other countries than he did in your shared space, when his absence began to feel more familiar than his presence, the cracks came naturally.

Simon was gone for months at a time, pulled into work he couldn’t fully explain. You’d gotten used to the half-answers, the cryptic messages, the exhaustion in his eyes when he came back. But you hadn’t gotten used to the way the distance hollowed things out.

So you both let go. Or at least, you tried to.

The thing no one tells you is that even the gentlest breakups leave scars. They just cut in different ways. For you, the regret didn’t come as a wave—it came as an ocean. An endless tide of what-ifs.

What if you’d been more patient? What if you’d adapted to the silences? What if you’d fought harder?

Every night, the questions pulled at you. Tonight was no different. You sat in bed, phone in hand, considering impossible impulses—driving to his place, calling, sending some reckless midnight confession. Anything to make sure he knew you still cared.

Simon had never hurt you physically. But his absence had left bruises you couldn’t see.

2:46 a.m. glowed cold and bright from your phone. Your lock screen was still a photo of you and him, taken on a rare day when his smile didn’t seem guarded. You hadn’t changed it—couldn’t. It felt like erasing him.

You unlocked your phone, and muscle memory betrayed you. Your thumb went straight to his contact, opening the message thread you’d scrolled through more times than you’d admit to anyone. The old texts were still there. Stupid inside jokes. The “be safe” messages before he deployed. The rare, precious “I miss you” that had always made your chest tighten.

You scrolled upward slowly, letting your eyes linger on the happier days. And then—suddenly—the typing dots appeared.

Three little bubbles pulsing.

You stared, waiting for anything. A “Hello.” A “How are you?” A “Been thinking about you.” Something to prove you hadn’t been completely erased from his life.

And then—nothing.

The dots vanished.

Silence in the room. Silence in your chest that somehow felt louder than any fight you’d ever had.

That’s when you noticed the light creeping in through the curtains.

It couldn’t be light at 2:46. You glanced back at your screen. 6:28 a.m. Somewhere between waiting and hoping, hours had passed away.

Your chest felt heavy. You looked at the blank text field and exhaled slowly, as though forcing the air out would make words appear. You typed, each letter feeling like it carried too much weight.

There are things I want to say to you, but I’ll just let you live.

You read it twice, hit send.

It felt too final. Too much like a door you didn’t want to close.

This time, the dots came back instantly.

Okay, sweetheart. Tomorrow, 1 p.m. I’ll come over and we can talk about what’s troubling your mind.

Sweetheart. The word lodged deep, a shard you didn’t want to remove.

You read his reply once. Then twice. Then enough times that the words blurred.

Your thumbs moved before your thoughts caught up.

See you then.

The message sent. The screen dimmed. The picture of you and him returned.

But this time, as you set the phone down, you didn’t turn it face-down. You left it screen-up on the pillow beside you, like a fragile thread tying you to tomorrow.