Love is pointless

Autumn arrives the way grief often does. Quietly. Gradually. So softly at first that you almost convince yourself nothing has changed.

The air cools in the mornings. A thin bite of cold when you step outside before school. Leaves gather along the sidewalks in dry, whispering piles that scatter when cars pass.

Everything looks the same.

The same streets.
The same houses.
The same bus stops.

But something in the world feels hollowed out.

Like someone removed a piece from the center of it and everything else is still pretending it fits.

School starts again.

The first morning your alarm rings, your hand reaches for your phone before you’re even fully awake.

It’s automatic.

You don’t even think about it.

Because for months there was always something waiting.

Good luck today.

Or a stupid meme.

Or a blurry picture of her hair sticking up in every direction with the caption: I woke up ugly today please still love me.

Sometimes she would send a voice message instead, still half asleep, words soft and slurred.

“Good morning… go be smart today, okay?”

You used to replay those more times than you would ever admit.

Now your screen is blank.

Your thumb pauses there anyway.

You stare at it for a long moment, like something might appear if you are patient enough.

Like maybe there was a delay.

Like maybe the message is just late.

But there is nothing.

There cannot be.

Because before you left, the two of you made a promise.

A promise that felt mature when you said it out loud.

Responsible.

Healthy.

You both agreed that staying in touch would make it harder.

That lingering messages and late night calls would keep reopening something that had already broken.

So you promised each other something much crueler.

No contact.

No checking in.

No “just to see how you are.”

You lock the phone.

You set it down.

You stare at the ceiling for another minute before getting out of bed.

The hallway at school is loud in a way that feels almost violent.

Lockers slam. Shoes scrape across the floor. Someone laughs too loudly at something you cannot hear.

You move through it all like someone slightly out of sync with the world.

People say your name sometimes.

You answer.

You smile when you are supposed to.

But half the time you do not really remember what anyone said to you afterward.

Your brain keeps drifting somewhere else.

After school you start walking home instead of taking the bus.

You tell yourself it is because the weather is nice.

Because you need the exercise.

Because it clears your head.

But the truth is simpler.

The bus was yours and hers.

The seats near the back.
The shared earbuds.
The quiet conversations that felt like their own small world while the city blurred past the windows.

Walking means you do not have to sit in that empty space.

Most days you take the short route.

The one that avoids certain places.

The convenience store where she once dared you to try a drink so sour you nearly gagged while she laughed so hard she had to grab the counter for balance.

The bus stop where she used to lean her head against your shoulder and pretend she was not falling asleep.

The little park near the neighborhood entrance.

You avoid that one the most.

Because that is where the bench is.

The bench where she once sat cross-legged beside you, tracing invisible shapes on your wrist while talking about a professor she had read about who studied something neither of you fully understood.

She had looked so excited.

So alive.

You had watched her more than you listened.

Eventually your feet betray you.

One afternoon you end up there anyway.

The bench looks smaller than you remember.

Or maybe the space beside you just feels larger now.

You sit down slowly.

The wood creaks the same way it used to.

For a moment you imagine her voice beside you.

You imagine her saying something like,

“You look like a sad Victorian orphan right now.”

You can almost hear the way she would laugh afterward.

You close your eyes.

You try to remember exactly how that laugh sounded.

Not just the idea of it.

The real sound.

The pitch.

The way it started sharp when something surprised her and then softened into something warm.

You replay it again.

And again.

But after the fourth or fifth time, something unsettling happens.

It starts sounding different.

Like your brain is filling in the gaps.

Like you are slowly rewriting it without meaning to.

Your chest tightens.

You open your eyes quickly.

The playground across the park is empty.

A swing creaks back and forth slightly in the wind.

Your phone sits in your pocket.

For a moment your hand moves toward it.

Just instinct.

Just muscle memory.

You could text her.

You know her number by heart.

You could type something small.

Hey.
I saw the first frost today.
It made me think of you.
I still love you

The thought sits there for a long moment.

Then you remember the promise.

You remember her crying when you both agreed to it.

Her voice shaking, as if it could crumble beneath the weight of everything you were both throwing away

Your hand drops away from your pocket.

You whisper her name under your breath.

Just once.

It sits in the air for a moment.

Then disappears.

Nights are the worst.

Your room feels different now.

Too quiet.

Your phone sits on the nightstand like something fragile.

You tell yourself you will not check the photos again.

You always do.

You know exactly where they begin.

The snow.

Her spinning you into that ridiculous slow dance in the middle of the street.

Your arm around her waist.

Her cheeks pink from the cold.

One photo catches your attention longer than the others.

She is laughing in it.

Eyes closed.

Head tilted back.

Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.

You remember the exact moment it was taken.

You had said something stupid. Something about how if this really was a movie, the soundtrack would probably be swelling dramatically right now.

She had rolled her eyes and then spun you again, nearly slipping in the snow.

You zoom in on the photo.

You stare at her face like there might be something hidden there.

Some warning.

Some small sign that this happiness was temporary.

But there is nothing.

Just two people who look deeply, stupidly in love.

You hold the phone against your chest for a moment before locking the screen.

Weeks pass.

Friends try to pull you forward with them.

They talk about college applications.

Internships.

Plans for the future.

Sometimes they ask what you are thinking about doing.

You give vague answers.

You say things like “I am figuring it out.”

The truth is harder to explain.

For a long time, the future was something you imagined with her.

Even when you did not say it out loud.

That had been your goal, your north star, your purpose

Now it feels like someone erased the map, stole the stars from the sky and handed you the blank paper.

One evening you are cleaning your room when you find something tucked behind a stack of old notebooks.

Her hoodie.

You forgot she left it here.

It is the one she used to steal back from you constantly.

The sleeves too long.

The collar stretched slightly from the way she always tugged it down over one shoulder.

You sit on the floor without meaning to.

Your fingers curl into the fabric.

It still smells faintly like her detergent.

The scent hits you so suddenly that your chest aches.

For a moment you close your eyes.

And there she is again.

Leaning into your side.

Half asleep during a movie.

Murmuring something soft against your shoulder.

“Don’t move. I’m comfortable.”

You press the sleeve to your face.

You stay like that longer than you realize.

Eventually the smell fades.

Or maybe your nose just gets used to it.

Either way, the illusion slips away.

You fold the hoodie carefully.

You place it back in the closet.

But not all the way in the back.

Winter starts creeping closer.

The sky turns pale and heavy.

One morning frost clings to the edges of car windows.

You stand outside for a moment before school and watch your breath fog in the air.

For a second you remember that night in the snow.

The slow dance.

Her laughter echoing down the empty street.

You wonder where she is right now.

If it is cold where she is too.

If snow has started falling there yet.

If she ever thinks about that night.

If she ever misses it the way you do.

That night your phone lights up while you are lying in bed.

Your heart jumps so violently it almost hurts.

For half a second you believe something impossible.

You grab the phone.

The notification is from some app you forgot you downloaded.

Your heart sinks slowly back into place.

The room feels very quiet again.

You set the phone down.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time.

Eventually you whisper something into the darkness.

“I hope you’re happy.”

You mean it.

You always meant it.

That is the cruelest part of all this.

Loving her never stopped.

You just agreed not to touch it anymore.

Not to reopen the door.

Not to say the things both of you know would pull you right back to each other.

Because sometimes loving someone means protecting the life they are growing into.

Even if it means disappearing from it.

And sometimes, when the world gets very still, a thought slips in that you cannot quite push away.

You wonder if somewhere far away, on some quiet morning in a different city, she still reaches for her phone when she wakes up.

Just for a second.

Before remembering the promise.