Chapter six
She waved once before disappearing into the building, and the door shut softly behind her. The streetlight above cast a faint gold halo over the entrance, but the moment she was gone, everything felt a little dimmer. I sat there for a while, hands on the steering wheel, the quiet hum of the engine, the only sound between me and my thoughts.
I should have left. Driven off, gone home, slept off the exhaustion that clung to my body. But my mind wasn't quiet. Not tonight. Not after seeing her like that,her eyes, the slight tremor in her voice, the way she said thank you like it carried the weight of years.
I exhaled slowly and shifted into drive. The streets were mostly empty, the city breathing in low, distant sounds,some traffic, a dog barking, the rustle of wind through trees. Streetlights stretched across the windshield like fading ribbons, and with every turn, the image of her walking barefoot on one heel kept replaying in my head.
I told myself it was just concern. That I was only making sure she got home safely. But that was a lie, and I knew it. It always started with small lies like that.
As I turned onto the main road, I realized how much had changed and how much hadn't. The skyline looked different now, taller buildings, brighter lights, but the air smelled the same. The city still held the echo of everything I'd tried to forget.
And then, without warning, my mind pulled me backwards.
It wasn't supposed to happen that day. I wasn't supposed to meet her at all.
I had just come out of a lecture, already half-exhausted from working late nights at the internship I somehow juggled with final year classes. I'd decided to stop by the small café outside campus,the one everyone went to for cheap caffeine and even cheaper seats. I needed coffee, not conversation. But fate, apparently, had other plans.
She was standing in front of me at the counter, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, arguing softly with the barista about her order. Something about almond milk and the wrong cup size. I remember thinking she was beautiful in a way that didn't try too hard. No makeup, just expressive eyes and that animated tone that made her words sound alive.
When the barista turned to grab her drink, she glanced back,and that was when she bumped right into me.
The coffee cup tilted, my reflexes kicked in too late, and hot liquid splashed across my sleeve and the front of her white shirt.
"Oh my God!" she gasped, staring in horror. "I'm so sorry!"
I winced, half laughing despite the sting. "I think that was my fault. Should've been watching where I was going."
She fumbled for napkins, muttering apologies, dabbing at my sleeve even though it was already ruined. "No, it was definitely me. I was too busy lecturing the poor guy about milk."
I couldn't help smiling. "Tragic. Almond milk claims another victim."
That earned me a laugh,a real one. The kind that started small but filled the air like sunlight. And I remember thinking right then that I wanted to make her laugh again. Not just today, but always.
She offered to buy me another coffee as an apology. I told her she didn't have to. She insisted. And when she smiled, I caved.
We sat by the window, our sleeves still damp, our coffees cooling between us. I asked what she was studying; she said business management but secretly wanted to work in marketing. She asked what I was doing; I told her about architecture, about how I loved building things people could live in, breathe in.
She said, "So you like designing the world," and I remember saying, "And you like running it." She laughed again, and I didn't realize until later how easily she'd fit herself into my world from that moment on.
Back then, everything was simple. She made it simple.
The sound of a car horn jolted me back to the present. I hadn't realized I was slowing down. I straightened in my seat, forcing myself to focus on the road. But the memory lingered like a taste I couldn't wash away.
That day turned into weeks of seeing her at the café, pretending it was a coincidence. Then, study sessions, shared walks, and late calls. Before I knew it, we were inseparable. She had this way of grounding me,reminding me that life wasn't just deadlines and drafts. I was always planning, calculating, and thinking five years ahead. She was the opposite,she lived for the now, reckless and bright, always pulling me into things I didn't know I needed.
I smiled faintly to myself. It used to drive me crazy,how she could convince me to skip meetings for a picnic or drag me to watch some indie film that made no sense. But those were the moments I remembered most now.
Not the arguments. Not the silence that came later. But the laughter. The feeling that time stood still whenever she was near.
The night breeze drifted through the half-open window. I turned down the street leading to my apartment, slower now, unwilling to let go of the memory too quickly.
How did it get so complicated?
I tried to trace it,where things started to shift. Was it when I started focusing more on work? When late nights became excuses and calls turned into texts that went unanswered? Or was it before that, when I stopped really listening, assuming she'd always be there?
The truth was, I didn't know when I started losing her. Only that by the time I noticed, she was already gone.
And tonight, seeing her again,hearing her voice—it felt like the universe had reopened a wound I'd spent years pretending had healed.
The light ahead turned red. I slowed to a stop, resting my arm against the window. The faint hum of the city at night filled the silence,the sound of distance, of things left unsaid.
I thought about the look on her face when I mentioned her walking away. The flicker of pain, the quiet way she said, "You think I didn't pay for that?"
I gripped the wheel tighter.
What did she mean by that?
Did she still think about us? Did she ever regret it?
Or was I just a part of her past,a lesson, a mistake she'd outgrown?
The thought burned.
The light changed. I drove on, passing familiar streets that suddenly felt strange. For years, I'd told myself I'd moved on, that what we had was a beautiful mess better left untouched. But seeing her tonight, all that restraint cracked.
It wasn't just nostalgia,it was something deeper, something I didn't want to name.
I parked outside my apartment and sat there for a moment before cutting the engine. The silence that followed felt heavy.
I leaned back in the seat, staring at the ceiling through the windshield. The night sky above the city was hazy, dimmed by lights, but I could still make out a few scattered stars.
I remembered how she used to love looking at them. We'd lie on the hood of my car back in college, her head resting on my chest, and she'd point at constellations I never remembered. She always said stars made her feel small in the best way,like nothing bad could really matter under all that light.
I didn't tell her then that I only looked at them because she did.
The memory stung now. Because of that version of us,those kids who believed the world was theirs,it felt like someone else's life.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe she really had paid for leaving. Maybe her silence wasn't peace but survival.
But I wasn't ready to believe it yet.
Not until I knew why.
And for the first time in years, I found myself wanting to know again. Not as her boss. Not as the man she used to love. But as the man who still, somehow, couldn't stop caring.
I opened my eyes, staring at the faint reflection of my face in the windshield.
"You're in trouble, Carter," I muttered to myself. "Big trouble."
But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the ache, something inside me sparked,quiet, dangerous hope.
Because if the way she looked at me tonight meant anything, then maybe… just maybe… I wasn't the only one still haunted by the past.