Mornings were quieter now.
Not because the world had stopped spinning—but because she had.
The playlist had changed. That was enough of a sign.
No explanations. No rewinds. Just something different, because she was different now.
She walked past familiar places like they were strangers. Stairwells, corridors that once made her pause—they were just spaces now.
Empty. Like her.
She told herself she didn't look for him anymore. Not in the corridors. Not in the crowd. Not even in memories.
But healing wasn't linear.
Some days, she laughed louder than she thought she could.
Other days, she heard a faint laugh like his, and it knocked the breath out of her lungs.
She had stopped texting friends about it. Stopped journaling. Stopped overthinking.
But she hadn't stopped feeling.
There were still flashes—
The way he once stood, calm and unbothered.
The way silence fell when he was near.
The way he looked at her, that one time.
One time was enough.
She had created a home in that moment and kept returning to it, even when it burned.
But no more.
She was learning to turn away now.
Not out of hatred. Not out of pain.
Just… acceptance.
The kind that doesn't come crashing in,
but tiptoes softly into your heart one night,
when you're too tired to cry again.
There were still flashes—
Like the day they crossed paths near the staircase, and she mumbled a "sorry" even though he hadn't said a word.
Or that one time during theory class when the professor cracked a joke, and while everyone laughed, she caught a quiet smile flicker across his face.
It wasn't meant for anyone, but somehow it stayed with her.
The moments were brief. Almost invisible.
But for her, they had weight.
Like tiny constellations she stitched together to create something that felt like a story—
even if he never knew he was in it.