The call ended, and the silence in my office grew louder. The city buzzed outside the window, emails pinged, my assistant tapped once before leaving me alone.
And just like that — it crept in.
The quiet ache.
I didn't cry anymore. I didn't have time. There was always a pitch to fix, a contract to review, a child to raise. My world was so full.
But sometimes, I missed… him.
Not the man who screamed at me. Not the one who hurt me so badly I forgot how to breathe.
I missed him. The boy who flinched when I threw a box of band-aids at him and held it like it was a diamond ring. The one who stopped fighting because he was in love. The one who smiled like he didn't believe he deserved someone like me.
God, we were kids.
I used to count the freckles under his eyes. Run my fingers through his messy hair while he pretended not to love it. We had midnight talks about running away to Spain or Greece or literally anywhere — just the two of us. And for a while… it felt real. Like forever was a promise we could keep.
I let out a breath, brushing away the thought like dust.
He chose to become what he did. And I had chosen to survive.
But love — that first love — it never really dies, does it? It just changes shape. Becomes something you tuck away. Something you remember when the world gets too quiet.
I don't love him anymore.
But I remember the girl who did.
And sometimes, I wonder if he remembers her too.