And then I remember the other voice I’ve heard in my head for eight years—my own, on repeat, asking questions that never had answers.
Why wasn’t I enough?
Why didn’t you choose me?
Why did you leave and never come back?
The charity keeps circling back. The way he spoke about immigrant kids like it mattered enough to risk controversy. Like it mattered enough to tie his name to it. He’s investing in something that protects the exact people I’ve spent my whole life worrying about.
It should make me grateful.
It does.
It also makes me want to scream.
Because why now? Why is he showing up with tenderness and purpose when I’ve spent all these years building armor thick enough to survive him?
My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at the screen like it might explain reality. No new messages, because the world hasn’t actually changed. It’s just… collided.
My thumb hovers over Notes. And then I open it.
I haven’t written about him. Not really. Not the real thing. I’ve written aroundit. Built metaphors. Hidden behind storms and city lights and unnamed ghosts. But I never touched the moment he left. Never wrote about the break. Never wrote the aftermath.
Because to write it would mean admitting how much it destroyed me. To write it would mean giving it shape. And if it had shape, it would be real.
My fingers hover over the blank screen. Then I type.
Not a full verse. Not a song yet. Just fragments.
You said my name like it wasn’t a weapon.
Eight years and it still fits in my mouth.
Your eyes looked like apologies.
I learned to stop waiting.
I swallow hard, stare at the words, and keep going.
Third headline, I didn’t even check.
First one—I waited.
Second one—I stared at my phone.
Third one—I told myself you were gone and meant it.
It’s true.
When the first League player came out, I waited for a call that never came. When the second story hit, I waited again, like an idiot. By the third time, I didn’t even pick up my phone. I didn’t want hope anymore. Hope was a blade.
I write another line, and my throat clogs.
Broken promises come dressed as silence.
My hands start shaking. I pause, forcing myself to breathe. Vinny glances at me in the mirror. Not intrusive, just there. I look back down at the notes and type the words I don’t want to type.
If you wanted me, you would’ve come.
