Chapter 11 No Crown
(Arlo)
It had been a few months since February left.
Long enough for the world to pretend it had moved on.
Long enough for me to start pretending, too.
I still went to therapy, still tried to fill the hours that used to belong to her.
i never stopped looking for her but my therapist said something that stuck: "Arlo, when you go looking for her, whose ache are you trying to heal—hers, or yours? "
The question gutted me.
I had spent weeks walking streets I knew she loved, visiting the cafés where we used to sit, checking every face in every crowd as if she might suddenly appear.
But that day, sitting across from my therapist, I realized it was what I wanted not what she needed .
I wanted to soothe my ache, to see her just once more so the silence would stop echoing.
But she had chosen distance, and if I loved her, truly loved her, I had to respect that. So I stopped looking. Or at least, I told myself I did.
Still, she followed me everywhere, in dreams, in old notes, in half-finished sentences. I'd wake up sometimes and forget for three seconds that she was gone. Then the remembering would come, sharp and merciless, and I'd feel it all over again — the loss, the guilt, the stupid, stubborn hope.
I wanted to be closer to her somehow, even without her being there.
So I did the only thing that made sense, I tried to learn her language.
Her language was made of sketches and colors, of soft edges and small details that said more than entire paragraphs ever could.
Berrie used to talk about her heroines with this light in her eyes.
She'd describe how each line carried emotion, how every shade of color was deliberate, how silence between strokes could hold more truth than dialogue.
I used to watch her hands move across the page like they were translating her heart in real time.
She made art feel sacred. So maybe, in my own foolish attempt to stay close to her, I thought that if I could learn to draw, I might somehow learn to speak her language. That's how I ended up signing up for an illustration class.
Two weeks later, I summoned the courage to show my first sketchbook to Levi and March. They stared at it like critics in a museum. Finally Levi cleared his throat. "Yeah... that's... something."
March nodded solemnly. "Absolutely. Profound."
I blinked. "...Okay?"
And then they both burst out laughing.
"What?!" I demanded, feeling my face heat up.
Levi wiped a tear from his eye. "Dude, it looks like a cat riding a dragon while juggling pizzas. And the dragon has a top hat and possibly... a monocle."
"It's supposed to be heroic!" I said, half laughing, half mortified. "He's a knight fighting a monster, not a circus act!"
March grinned. "Well, the monster's definitely losing... from laughter."
I groaned and slammed the sketchbook closed. "You two are insufferable."
Levi leaned back, still chuckling. "Seriously, why are you even doing this? I mean... you're not exactly—"
"Talented?" I finished for him, narrowing my eyes.
He grinned. "I was gonna say 'experienced,' but sure. Talented works too."
March smirked. "Hey, maybe it's abstract genius. The world just isn't ready for Arlo yet."
I shot her a mock glare. "Right. The world isn't ready. But apparently cats juggling pizza are."
Levi laughed again. "See, at least the knight has a sense of humor."
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "You guys are enjoying this way too much."
March shrugged. "We live to watch you suffer artistically."
Levi leaned in, serious now, voice almost conspiratorial. "But honestly...Why are you doing this? Are you going to draw something for her?"
I looked down at my hands, quieter now. "Yeah," I said softly, "I want to draw something for her someday. Something she'd actually like. Something she'd understand."
March gave me a soft look and said, "Then keep drawing. Just... maybe fewer cats on dragons."
Three weeks later, on a sluggish Sunday morning, Levi nudged the toolbox with the toe of his boot, metal clinking against concrete in lazy protest.
"Get up," he said. "We're going for a ride."
I slid out from beneath the chassis, grease on my hands and skepticism in my eyes. "A ride? It's barely ten and the sky looks like regret."
"Exactly," he grinned. "Perfect weather for bad decisions and mediocre coffee." He tossed me my jacket. "Come on, Arlo. You've been sulking for months. February's ghost isn't gonna fix itself."
"Yeah, thanks for the reminder," I muttered, but followed him anyway.
We rode out to the edge of town — past the closed auto shop, down the winding back road where the air always smelled like pine and fuel. The engines were loud enough to drown out thoughts, and for a while, that was enough.
Levi slowed near an old gas station-turned-café, the kind bikers loved for no reason other than it had coffee that tasted like burnt rubber and nostalgia.
"Here?" I asked.
He parked, killing the engine. "Yup. The sacred temple of caffeine and carburetors."
Inside, the place was all mismatched furniture and motorcycle posters from the eighties. We grabbed a table by the window, helmets still in hand. Levi leaned back in his chair, smirking. "You still sketching your weird knight-cat hybrids?"
I groaned. "It was one drawing."
He laughed. "Sure, Picasso."
I was about to fire back when the bell over the door rang — a small sound, but it sliced through the hum of conversation and clinking cups. I didn't even need to look up. I felt it first. That quiet shift in the air, that gravity my body still recognized before my mind caught up.
My Berrie.
She stepped inside like sunlight breaking through an oil-streaked window, warmth slipping into a place that hadn't seen it in a while. Her hair was tied up, loose strands falling around her face, helmet tucked under one arm. She looked both perfectly at home and completely out of place.
Then I saw March beside her. They found a corner booth, the two of them sliding in with the ease of people who've been laughing all morning. And that laugh, that laugh, hit me like an old song I'd forgotten I knew the words to.
Levi noticed before I said a word. He leaned closer, voice low. "You okay?"
I didn't answer at first. Just watched her, the way she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her smile curved without trying.
"Yeah," I said finally. "I'm good."
It was a lie, obviously. A few minutes later, a man joined them, someone I didn't recognize. Clean-cut, composed, everything I am not. Jealousy hit like a spark under the ribs, but I forced it down. I had no right to it. I'd been the one who had her and the one stupid enough to lose her.
For a moment, the room just... vanished. The clatter of cups, Levi's voice, the hum of engines outside, all of it faded until there was only her. Her laughter. The way her hand brushed against his as she reached for her coffee.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My throat burned, eyes stung, and all I could think was how badly I wanted to be him — the man making her laugh, the one who got to look at her like she was something rare and whole and his.
But hindsight is always cruelly clear. Too late to change anything.
Levi noticed. "Arlo—"
I shook my head, frozen. My heart was beating in my throat, unsteady and painful. Then, as if fate wanted to twist the knife, she looked up. Our eyes met.
The world went silent.
For a second, it was just her — the way she blinked, startled, like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Then she offered me a polite, fleeting smile, one she also gives to a stranger she almost recognizes, and turned back to them.
Something inside me cracked quietly. I wanted to go to her, to close the distance and tell her everything I should've said before it was too late.
I wanted to hold her, beg her, promise her it would be different this time.
But then I thought maybe my presence would only reopen what she'd spent months trying to heal.
So I swallowed the ache, pushed my chair back, and walked out before the tears could make a scene.
Outside, the air felt sharp and alive, like punishment and mercy all at once. I didn't look back. I couldn't. Because love, when it's real, sometimes means walking away before you break something twice.
Outside, Levi apologized. "I didn't know she'd be here, man. I swear."
"It's fine," I said. My voice sounded like it came from someone else. "She's happy. That's all that matters. I want to be alone Levi."
But as I was riding home alone, my chest felt hollow, like something sacred had been taken from me for good. The wind stung my eyes, though I couldn't tell where the tears ended and the air began.
The streets were quiet, too quiet, or maybe it was just me — moving through them like a ghost with the ache of absence pressing against my ribs.
I passed familiar corners where we used to ride together, her laughter cutting through the roar of the bikes, her hands gripping the sides of my jacket when she pretended to be fearless.
The memory hit so hard I almost pulled over.
She was still there, in all the places I thought I'd reclaimed.
Still haunting the sound of the road, the scent of rain on asphalt, the quiet between songs.
I stopped at a red light and suddenly couldn't breathe.
The tears came without warning, blurring the world into streaks of light and motion.
I pressed my gloved hand against my helmet, as if I could hold myself together through sheer will, but it was useless.
God, I missed her.
I missed everything about her. I wanted a do-over. A different life. One where I wasn't built from broken parts and bad timing. One where I had a home that didn't echo, parents who stayed, friends I didn't lose, and love that didn't come with lessons written in heartbreak.
When the light turned green, I wiped at my face, took a shaky breath, and kept riding. By the time I reached home, everything felt blurred. I left the helmet on the table and sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
That night, I opened my sketchbook. The pages felt heavier than usual, as if they knew what I was about to put on them. I started to draw a story.
A prince who loses his crown. Who wanders through forests and storms, fighting monsters of his own making, chasing fragments of light through the dark. A prince who loves a princess so deeply he risks everything to find her again, to deserve her.
I drew until my hands ached. Each line felt like a confession, each stroke a quiet echo of love I still carried without asking for anything in return.
I leaned back, drained, letting the silence wrap around me like a too-heavy blanket.
My gaze lingered on the sketch I'd just finished, the lines still soft and uncertain.
Maybe one day, I'd send it to her through March, if she ever wanted to see it.
Not as a plea, not even as a promise, just..
. an apology. A way for her to see herself the way I always did, the way I still did.
She was always my princess, even when I was too broken, too blind, too foolish to realize it in time.
I reached for my phone, meaning only to check the time, but before my thumb touched the screen, it began to ring. The sound cut through the quiet like a thread pulled too tight, sharp and jarring against the stillness.
I froze, the air catching in my throat as the screen glowed in the half-light.
This was a call from the past.