I kept replaying the moment outside the cafe. The way his hand had brushed mine. The way he’d leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. And then, Ethan’s face, sharp and sudden and gone too soon.
My chest still tightened when I thought about it.
About him.
About everything.
But when I’d pulled back, Alex hadn’t looked hurt or disappointed. He’d just smiled softly and said,“We can take it slow.”
I could still hear it. That gentle patience in his voice. Like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere, I wasn’t ready to go.
In my room, I turned on the lamp, soft golden light spilling over the carpet. I bent to slide my shoes back into the closet, and something caught my eye.
A box.
It was half-hidden behind old winter boots, pushed far back on the shelf. The cardboard was worn at the corners, the writing on top faded:E + E.
For a long moment, I just stared. My throat tightened, but my hand was already reaching for it before I could talk myself out of it.
I carried it to the bed and sat down, the weight of it solid on my lap.
When I lifted the lid, the scent of dust and time hit me, and then the memories spilled out.
A burned CD withThe Clashwritten across it in Sharpie.
A ticket stub from that night we’d snuck into Columbus for a concert.
A photo of me with blue hair and smudged eyeliner, laughing into the camera while Ethan looked at me like I hung the damn moon.
I traced his face with my fingertip.
God, we’d been such kids. Brave, stupid, so sure, forever would always mean forever.
The tears came quietly, at first just a prickle at the corners of my eyes. Then more freely, falling hot and unashamed. But it wasn’t the same kind of crying as before. Not the sharp, hollow kind that left me gasping.
This was softer.
This was release.
I loved him. I always would. But for the first time, I understood that loving him didn’t mean I had to stay frozen in the space he’d left behind.
He’d want me to move.
To laugh again.
To live.
I picked up the photo again, looking at his grin, that mischievous, beautiful smile that had started it all.
“I miss you,” I whispered. “But I think . . . I think I’m ready.”
My voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to.
I carried the picture to my vanity and tucked it into the edge of the mirror. His smile caught the lamplight, soft and knowing.
Then I turned off the light, crawled into bed, and let the quiet fill the room.
For the first time in a long time, the ache in my chest wasn’t just grief. It was hope.
