Wait

Her text comes at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday.

Can we meet tomorrow?

You stare at the screen. Three months of silence, and this is what breaks it. Three. Months. No "hey," no "how are you," just a question she already knows the answer to.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

Yeah. Where?

The reply comes fast. Too fast. Like she was waiting.

The parking garage.

You know which one she's talking about.

Of course you do.

You type okay and put the phone face-down on your desk. Your hands are shaking and you hate that they are. You promised yourself you were done with this. Promised your friends you were done with this. You'd been doing better, genuinely—went two weeks without checking her Instagram, started talking to someone new at work, so very close to convincing yourself the ache in your chest was fading.

And then four fucking words, and you're right back where you started. Not even Square 1. Square 0.

You pick up your phone again. Read the message three more times like the words might change.

They don't.

You arrive fifteen minutes early because you're an idiot. The parking garage is the same as it always was—empty on the top level, the city sprawled out below, the smell of exhaust and old concrete. You used to come here with Moka after late shifts at the convenience store, back when she was just a girl who made you laugh and not someone whose face you'd see on a billboard someday. Someone whose face you'd hate to see on a billboard someday.

Back when she was yours. Kind of. Maybe. You were never really sure.

You lean against the concrete barrier and check your phone. 11:58 PM.

The air is cold. Your breath fogs in front of you.

You should've worn a thicker jacket, but the one you grabbed smells like the laundry detergent she always said she liked, and some stupid part of you thought that mattered.

Yeah. Cause that'll be the thing that finally convinces her.

Footsteps echo up the stairwell.

Your heart does this clench. Something painful and familiar.

She appears at the top of the stairs, and the first thing you notice is that she looks tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes—the kind that visually seems to weigh someone down. Her hair is different, shorter maybe, styled in a way that looks expensive and well taken care of. She's wearing a black hoodie and jeans, but even in the dim light you can tell the clothes cost more than anything in your closet.

She sees you and stops.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then she walks over, slow, like she's not sure if she's allowed to be here. When she's close enough, she tries to smile.

It doesn't reach her eyes.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

Her hands are shoved in her hoodie pocket. She's looking at you like she's trying to figure out what to say next, and the silence stretches long enough to hurt.

You hate silence like this.

"Thanks for coming," she finally says.

"Yeah. Of course."

Of course. Like there was ever a doubt.

She looks out over the city. The lights blur together, orange and white and distant. You watch her profile and try not to think about how many nights you spent memorizing it.

How you've successfully memorized it.

"I wasn't sure you'd answer," she admits quietly.

You laugh bitterly. "When have I ever not answered?"

She flinches. Just a little. Enough that you notice.

"I know," she says. "I know I don't... I shouldn't have asked. But I—" She stops. Takes a breath. "I'm debuting next week."

You knew that already. Saw the announcement on Twitter. Watched the teaser video twice before you made yourself close the app. She looked untouchable in it. Perfect. Not like the girl standing in front of you now, picking at the edge of her sleeve.

"Congratulations," you say, and you mean it. You do.

She nods but doesn't say anything.

The silence is heavy. You want to fill it but don't know how. This is how it always was with her—these stretches of nothing where you'd scramble to find the right words, terrified that saying the wrong thing would make her pull away again, and yet equally scared that saying nothing would push her away just as much.

"I needed to see you," she says suddenly. "Before everything changes. Before I can't anymore."

Your throat tightens.

"Why?"

She looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there's something in her eyes—something desperate and sad and almost guilty. At least you want to believe there's guilt somewhere in there. That she's not just doing this shit on purpose. Because you don't know how to handle it if she is.

"Because I don't know when I'll get another chance."

The words hit you square in the chest. You want to ask what that means. You want to ask if she missed you, if she thought about you, if the last three months were as unbearable for her as they were for you. You want to ask if this is goodbye or if it's something else entirely.

But you don't.