chapter one: to be sitting here with you 

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The air inside the car is too still. Not quiet, exactly—there’s music playing, something soft and sad that neither of them wants to acknowledge. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers laced tightly, as if she’s trying to hold herself together. He’s gripping the steering wheel like it might vanish if he lets go. 

They haven’t spoken in miles. 

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Outside, the trees blur. Summer is ending, and the wind carries the weight of things unsaid. 

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She turns to him. His profile is sharp against the dusky light, eyes fixed on the road. She wants to reach out, to place a hand on his arm, to say something—but her mouth won’t open. 

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Instead, she says it in her mind. Stay. Just this once, stay. 

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She pictures him pulling over, looking at her like he used to, like she’s the only thing that ever made sense. She imagines him saying he was wrong, that this isn’t over, that it never really was. 

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She imagines him kissing her. 

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The taste of it. Warm, familiar, real. 

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But the car keeps going. 

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He clears his throat. “You okay?” 

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She smiles like she’s not breaking. “Yeah. Just tired.” 

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She looks up at the ceiling of the car. Grey fabric. Nothing special. But it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than remembering how many ceilings they’ve stared at together, wrapped up in sheets and silence and the kind of laughter that makes you think maybe—just maybe—you could stay in that moment forever. 

She thinks about how something can feel so real in one second and then disappear the next. Like it never happened. 

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“I hate goodbyes,” she whispers. 

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He glances at her, eyes softening. “Me too.” 

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But the road stretches on, straight and certain. No turns. No second chances. And she realizes, maybe it was never about the goodbye. Maybe it was always about pretending they were still living in the part of the story where everything made sense.

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They arrive. He puts the car in park. 

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She gets out. 

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He doesn’t follow. 

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And when she closes the door behind her, she doesn’t look back—not because she doesn’t want to, but because she knows she will if she does. 

Inside, she lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling. 

 

It’s a different one now. 

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But it feels the same. 

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chapter two: to be rained on with you 

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The ceiling in her room is off-white, with a faint crack running through the middle like a fault line. She watches it the way she used to watch his chest rise and fall beside her. Back then, it felt like the world was held together by the rhythm of his breathing. Now, the silence is sharp. Unforgiving. 

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She doesn’t cry. Not yet. Grief, she’s learned, doesn’t always come with tears—it comes with weight. It sits in your chest and your throat and the back of your eyes. It waits for you to break. 

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Her phone buzzes once. A message. 

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"Got home safe." 

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She stares at it. Types "okay." Deletes it. Types "good." Deletes that, too. She wants to write: Do you think about me when you’re alone? 

Instead, she puts the phone down, screen facedown like that’ll stop it from knowing too much.

 

*** 

The days pass quietly. 

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She goes to work. Smiles when she’s supposed to. Nods when people talk to her. It’s strange how easy it is to pretend. No one notices she walks slower now, or that she avoids the coffee shop they used to sit in every Sunday morning, pretending they were just friends—pretending the glances didn’t mean anything. 

 

They did, though.

 

They always did. 

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*** 

One night, she dreams of him. 

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Not in the obvious way. They’re not kissing, or arguing, or holding hands on a train platform. They’re just… standing in a room, looking at each other like they don’t quite remember how to speak. And when she tries to move toward him, her legs don’t work. 

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She wakes up with her heart pounding. 

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The crack in the ceiling looks deeper now. Or maybe it’s just her. 

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*** 

Weeks go by. Maybe months. 

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Eventually, she stops waiting for a message. 

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Not because she stopped hoping—because hope is stubborn—but because something softer has begun to grow in its place. Not closure, not yet. But space. 

One evening, she finds herself walking past the coffee shop again. The windows are fogged up, people laughing inside. Her reflection meets her eyes in the glass. She looks older. Not in a bad way—just like someone who knows better now. 

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She doesn’t go in. 

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But she doesn’t turn around either. 

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*** 

That night, she lies on her bed again, staring at the ceiling like she used to. But this time, something’s different. It doesn’t ache the same way. 

She reaches for her phone—not to text him, not to check if he’s finally said something. Just to delete the draft she never sent. Then she closes her eyes. And for the first time in a long time, the ceiling just looks like a ceiling. 

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Not a memory. 

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Not a metaphor. 

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Just… a ceiling. Hers. 

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And for now, that’s enough.

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chapter three: to sit between comfort and chaos 

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Autumn settles into the city like an apology. The leaves let go of their branches with a kind of grace she envies—how easily they fall, how beautifully they land. 

She walks more now. Not to clear her head—because that never really worked—but to prove to herself that she can keep moving, even if she doesn’t know where she’s going. The air is sharp, edged in gold, the kind that makes you feel both entirely alive and entirely alone. 

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There are days she doesn’t think of him at all. 

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And then there are days when he’s everywhere. In the sound of a certain laugh, in the way a song dips low, in the smell of someone else's cologne. 

Memory is a trick of the light. It comes and goes when it wants to. 

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*** 

She runs into him in a grocery store. It’s a random Tuesday. 

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She’s holding a carton of oat milk. He’s in the cereal aisle, wearing that jacket she used to sleep in when she stayed too long. 

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They lock eyes for a second too long to be casual. But neither moves. 

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He gives her a small smile—like a question. 

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She answers with a nod. 

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That’s all. 

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He doesn’t come over. She doesn’t call his name. They pass each other like strangers in a dream, and the air between them feels like a closed book. 

 

She doesn’t cry in the parking lot. She thought she might. 

 

But she doesn’t. 

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*** 

That night, she writes. Not a message. Not a letter she’ll never send. Just… a thought. "You can miss someone without needing them back." 

 

She stares at it for a while, then copies it onto a sticky note and places it on her mirror. For once, it doesn’t feel like a lie. 

 

***

Winter comes fast. 

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She watches the first snowfall from her window, wrapped in a blanket he’s never touched. She makes tea, lights a candle, plays a song that isn't theirs. 

 

She still has ceilings. 

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She still stares at them sometimes. 

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But she doesn’t imagine him there anymore. 

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Not in the passenger seat. Not in her bed. Not in her mind. 

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She imagines herself, whole, tired, but healing. 

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And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she’s pretending she’s still here. She just is. And maybe that’s the whole point.