Chapter 12 An Idiot
I hadn't expected to see him, and yet, there he was, as if the universe had grown tired of my pretending and decided to test me.
His hair was messier than I remembered, that kind of careless, beautiful disarray that used to drive me insane.
His eyes were darker somehow, older, and God, he looked good, unfairly, achingly good, so beautiful it made my stomach twist with nostalgia and regret.
I missed him. I missed him so much it physically hurt.
For one wild, fleeting second, I wished I could rewrite everything, wished I'd never opened those letters, never discovered the truth, never torn down the illusion we had built.
I almost wished I had stayed blind, blissfully unaware, because at least then, I would still have him.
For a moment, everything else disappeared — the hum of conversation, the clinking of cups, even March's soft laughter and Declan's voice beside me.
The world dimmed until there was only him.
My chest tightened, a sharp, almost unbearable pressure, as if every emotion I'd buried for months had decided to resurface all at once.
Anger. Longing. Grief. The quiet, hollow ache of missing him.
The way my heart still recognized him before my mind could even catch up.
March must have noticed, because her voice softened as she reached for my hand. "Do you want to talk to him?"
I shook my head before I could even think to answer.
My fingers curled around hers instinctively, like I needed something solid to hold on to, something to keep me from unraveling.
But my eyes stayed fixed on Arlo, the slope of his shoulders drawn tight, his jaw clenched, his whole body suspended in that fragile space between wanting to come closer and knowing he no longer had the right to.
And then, before I could make sense of anything, he turned away.
Just like that.
He didn't approach me, didn't call my name, didn't even say hi.
He just... left. For a second, I couldn't breathe.
I had spent months imagining this moment, picturing a hundred different versions of how it might go.
I thought he'd rush over, that we'd have one of those messy, cinematic confrontations full of apologies and unfinished love.
I thought he'd say something, anything, to break the silence between us.
But instead, he walked away and somehow, that hurt more than all the words he never said.
March squeezed my hand. "Feb he's trying to respect your boundaries."
"Or maybe," Declan added, with a teasing lift of his eyebrows, "he thought I was your new boyfriend so he backed off."
I laughed bitterly, though tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I was so tired of crying. So tired. My chest ached in a familiar, relentless way.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The scene replayed over and over; I kept remembering the look in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for me and the way he turned away before I could even breathe his name.
I stared at my phone for hours, the glow of the screen painting my room in pale blue light.
His number was still there, the same one I hadn't deleted, though I'd told everyone I had.
I typed Can we talk? then deleted it. Typed it again.
Deleted it again. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, useless, shaking.
What would I even say? That I still think about you?
That you ruined me? Do you still think of me?
Was any of it real? I locked the screen before I could make a fool of myself.
The phone went dark, and for the first time in months, I let myself cry without trying to stop it.
A few days later, I went home with March.
She was glowing. She kept talking about someone, though she wouldn't tell me who.
Just someone. Someone who had already bailed on their own dates a few times to "help a friend.
" I wasn't sure what to make of it, whether to be worried or not but I could tell she was already in deep.
I have a bad feeling about it all but her laughter came easier these days, a little too free, a little too hopeful, and I didn't have the heart to dim it.
We spent the evening in that soft, easy way we used to — music playing low, wine half-finished, my sketches and her jokes. Then, as the night began to quiet, March reached into her bag and handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper. "This is for you," she said, her voice gentle.
Inside was a sketchbook.
My breath caught.
I turned the pages slowly, fingers trembling.
Arlo's sketches filled them. It wasn't perfect.
The lines wavered, the proportions were off, the shading unsure.
But it was him. All of him. Every page felt like a confession written in graphite and hope.
The story wasn't finished, but I could feel what it meant.
I pressed the sketchbook to my chest, closing my eyes, breathing in the faint scent of pencil, paper, and something achingly familiar, just him.
It felt like he was still speaking to me, in the only language we had left.
That night, I couldn't sleep. His face kept bleeding through my thoughts and his sketches haunting the back of my eyelids. The ache wouldn't leave; it just pulsed, patient and cruel. By dawn, I'd made up my mind, I couldn't keep pretending I didn't care.
So I went to him to talk. Every step toward his door felt like walking into the mouth of something I wouldn't come back from. Maybe we will never get back together but maybe we can have a talk? My hands shook when I knocked.
The door creaked open, and a woman appeared in the doorway.
A brunette, shorter than me, effortlessly composed, with mischief glimmering in her dark eyes. There was something almost intoxicating about her confidence.
"Hi," she said, extending her hand with that effortless poise, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm Lyra."
For a heartbeat, everything inside me went still. Lyra. The Lyra. The name that had once been just a ghost between Arlo's words is now standing here, real, in his doorway.
"And you are?" she asked lightly. My throat tightened.
No one.
Just an idiot.