I can’t even fake my way through this anymore.
This isn’t a breakup song. This isn’t a regret anthem.
It’s a confession.
I love her. God, Iloveher.
It’s not new. That’s the worst part. This isn’t some sudden epiphany, some bolt from the blue. It’s been there—she’sbeen there—all along. In the way she made my place feel like home instead of a polished prison. In the way she laughed at the dumbest shit and made it feel like the funniest thing in the world. In the way she looked at me—really looked at me—like she saw past everything I pretended to be.
How could I have been so fucking stupid? How did I not see it?
Except… Idid. I just didn’t let myself believe it. Didn’t let myselfwantit. Because if I let it be real, I had something to lose.
And now I have.
Now that I’ve finally admitted what’s been clawing at me from the inside out—it’s obvious. Blindingly, painfully obvious.
It’s in the air I breathe.
It’s in every damn song I write, even the ones I tried to make about something else. Every melody bends toward her. Every lyric drips with her laugh, her hurt, her warmth, herabsence.
I drop the guitar and reach for my phone. My hand shakes slightly as I open my messages. I don’t second-guess it this time.
I type out a quick note to Celeste:
Ash:
Keep the flowers. I’m going to need them.
Then I switch to Olive.
Her name’s still in my favorites. Still saved with the little fox emoji she made me add one night while tipsy and curled up on the couch.
I tap her contact.
It rings once.
Then cuts to voicemail.
My throat tightens.
I try again.
Same thing.
I shoot her a message:
Ash:
I need to talk to you. Please.
No checkmarks.
No delivered badge.
Just the cold, blank status of digital silence.
I try another:
