The week moved slowly… almost painfully so.
Classes dragged, even the ones I used to enjoy. I had a few assignments to finish, and I stayed behind in the library just to keep myself occupied, pretending I wasn't counting down the days until break.
When I finally walked back into my room for the last night, it felt strangely empty.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment, hugging myself.
How did time fly this fast?
It felt like just yesterday Lily and I dragged our suitcases into this space, laughing about the tiniest things. Now her side of the room was already cleared out — she left two days ago. Her bed looked cold without her messy blankets and scattered hair products on the table.
I sat on my bed and traced my eyes across the room, trying not to think about Kade.
Trying not to think about how much I'd still hoped — stupidly — that he'd text first.
That he'd say something that made letting go a little less painful.
But nothing came.
Just silence.
And that quiet hurt more than anything.
I finally stood and packed the last of my things: my sweaters, the books I never actually read, Lily's tiny note she left on my desk, and the polaroid pictures we took during the semester. I zipped my suitcase and told myself:
You're going home. You're going to be fine.
---
The ride away from campus felt unreal.
Buildings blurred past the window, and every familiar corner felt like a memory I wasn't ready to leave behind. Students were everywhere — hugging friends, rushing into taxis, dragging bags, shouting promises of meeting again after break.
I even spotted Kade for a second.
He was leaning against a car, laughing with his friends.
His head tilted back, his smile bright, like nothing heavy ever touched him.
I shrank into my seat before he could notice me. A sharp ache twisted in my chest, but I forced myself to look away.
This is good, I whispered internally.
You're going home. Focus on that.
---
Arriving home felt like stepping into warmth.
My mom met me at the door with a tight hug, talking a mile a minute about how much she missed me.
My dad lifted my suitcase from my hand like it weighed nothing and told me he already planned "a full movie marathon" for the weekend.
My younger brother pushed past them both just to say, "Finally! Someone normal to talk to," before pretending he didn't actually miss me.
For the first time in weeks, I smiled without forcing it.
The house smelled like vanilla and cinnamon — my mom had baked earlier — and everything felt calm. Safe.
---
The days passed quietly.
I baked cupcakes with my mom, even though we ruined the first batch by forgetting sugar.
My dad insisted we go to the movies twice in one week — once for a thriller, once for a random animated film we picked last-minute.
My brother dragged me into watching his favorite show, pausing every five seconds to explain characters I didn't care about.
I kept myself busy.
Occupied.
Breathing.
But every night, when I finally lay down, I made the same mistake:
I checked my phone.
And there he was.
Kade on his story — out late, drinking with friends, posing for photos with that same effortless confidence. I tried to ignore it. I tried to remind myself we were over… even if we never officially said the words.
But then…
One night, the video hit differently.
It was Kade…
and a girl.
She was tucked under his arm, smiling up at him like she belonged there.
He looked at her the way he used to look at me when everything was new and uncomplicated.
My stomach dropped.
My hand went cold around my phone.
The music in the background, the laughing, the way he held her waist — it all blurred together while something inside me broke quietly.
That was the moment it finally settled in, heavy and real:
It's over.
Not because we talked about it.
Not because I chose to walk away.
But because he already had.
I didn't text him.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't let myself replay old memories.
I just placed my phone face down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and let the truth sink in.
For the first time, I didn't reach for him in my mind.
I didn't wait for a message.
I didn't hope.
I just let the silence be an answer.