Chapter Eight #2
“Like you’re somewhere else,” she says, tilting her head. “As if you’re chasing something that’s long gone.”
I laugh softly, but it sounds forced even to me. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But you forget—I’ve seen you at your worst.”
“My worst?” I repeat, giving her a look. “A bit extreme, don’t you think?”
Her smile fades a little. “You’re not over him, are you?”
The words hang between us, soft but solid. I grip the counter a little tighter than necessary. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“Yes you do.” Her tone isn’t cruel, it’s simple, like she’s stating a fact. “The one who won’t be named but made you swear off anything that doesn’t revolve around work.”
I take a slow sip to buy myself some time. The coffee burns going down. “You’re reading too much into things.”
“Am I?” she asks quietly. “Because every time his name circles the conversation, you get that look. The one that says you’ve already left the room.” She looks at me over her glasses, “You tense up. Every. Single. Time.”
I keep my eyes on the mug. “It’s been a long time, El. He’s part,” I force out a breath. “Part of my past… that’s all. I’m not—” I stop myself before the next word. Broken.
Ellie stays quiet and just waits, the way she always does when she knows I’ll talk eventually.
“I’ve moved on,” I say finally. “Or at least, I’m trying to. Still trying to… I don’t know.”
“Trying’s not the same as doing.”
I laugh again, sharper this time. “You’re really going for therapist of the year today, huh?”
“Someone’s gotta call your bluff.” She takes another sip, eyes softening. “He’s still in your heart, no matter how much you try to move on. I know he’s still on your mind more than you’d like to admit.”
The comment lands right where it shouldn’t, right in the middle of my chest, where I keep everything boxed up.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
Ellie exhales slowly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” I interrupt. “It’s fine.” My voice sounds steady, but it’s the wrong kind of calm—the kind that only comes from practice. “You’re not wrong. I just don’t see the point in unpacking something that shouldn’t exist anymore.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?”
I meet her eyes for the first time. “It can’t.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay.”
I grab my mug and move toward my desk before she can say anything else. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“That’s not coffee,” she calls after me. “That’s whatever’s left of your sanity.”
Despite myself, I smile. “Then it fits the morning.”
I make it to my desk and set the mug down. The screen’s still dark, waiting for me to turn it on, waiting for me to pick up where I left off. I see myself on the screen, the same tired eyes, and the same steady face.
Ellie’s voice echoes in my head. He’s still in your heart, no matter how much you try to move on.
I open my inbox just to have something else to look at, something that doesn’t feel like truth staring me down.
The first message waiting at the top of the list isn’t work. It’s a campus-wide memo about an upcoming fundraiser for the athletics department. It was sent by my boss and apparently this is mandatory and our office is in charge of set up and coordination that night.
I flag it for follow-up. Mandatory or not, the thought of showing up makes my stomach twist.
I take a breath, open a blank document, and start typing a list of media prep tasks that don’t actually need doing.
…………
By the time the office empties again, the clock’s pushed past nine. The hum of the vending machine is the only thing keeping me company, low and steady like it’s trying to fill the silence. I pack my bag slower than necessary, checking drawers for things I don’t need, just to avoid leaving.
Ellie’s already gone home. She waved from the door two hours ago with a pointed look that said, Don’t stay too long.
I told her I wouldn’t. I lied, obviously.
The building’s quiet when I step into the hall. My heels echo off the tile as I make my way toward the exit, steady and lonely against the stretch of empty corridor.
Outside, the air is damp and heavy. It must’ve rained again while I was inside.
It slicks the pavement outside the university event center, mirroring the glow of the glass doors and every polished car that pulls into the loop.
Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. A voice laughs. Then it’s gone.
I pause at the edge of the sidewalk and look toward the fieldhouse. It’s dark, but the faint hum of the stadium lights bleeds through the night. There’s a smell I remember, wet turf, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of rain on aluminum bleachers. It’s ridiculous that I notice it at all.
“If you were really over him,” I whisper to myself, “that scent wouldn’t make you instantly think about him.”
I shake my head and keep walking.
The wind catches the edge of my jacket. It’s cool against my skin.
I pull it tighter, the motion automatic, almost practiced.
The same way I fix my face before meetings or keep my voice steady when a call comes in.
It’s all habit now, holding myself together in public, then falling apart in private.
By the time I reach my car, my chest feels tight. I unlock the door and slide inside, letting the door shut out the rest of the world. The quiet hits hard. No voices, no screens, no excuse to stay busy.
The steering wheel feels cold against my palms. I start the engine just to have something making noise. The radio kicks on mid-song, a static hum before the words come through, some country track about missing what you shouldn’t. I turn it off immediately.
For a long minute, I just sit there, watching the rain make trails down the windshield. It blurs the lights outside into streaks of white and red.
I wonder if Jace stays late, rewatches game footage until the noise feels like comfort. If the life he built is everything he wanted it to be. I shouldn’t care. I don’t, I tell myself.
Another lie I’m good at.
The truth is, I built this life to survive the one I never got to live. To stay busy enough that I wouldn’t have to notice the hollow parts.
But grief has a way of hiding in the quiet things, the smell of rain, the buzz of lights, the sound of cleats on wet pavement. It sneaks in through memory and routine until it feels normal.
My phone buzzes once on the seat beside me. A calendar reminder: University Fundraiser – Athletics Dept.
The same event from that memo this morning.
The one I flagged instead of deleting.
My hand hovers over the screen before I swipe it away. It’s easier not to open it. Easier to pretend it’s just another work thing and not the possibility of seeing him again.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes. The engine hums softly, and somewhere outside, the sound of footsteps crosses the pavement—faint, rhythmic, seeming familiar. For a second, it’s like the past folds over the present, the edges of both too close to separate.
I draw a long breath and let it out slowly.
When I finally drive off, the lot is almost empty. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow arcs, the streetlights flashing in and out. My face flickers faintly in the glass—professional, composed, the woman who handles everything.
The woman everyone thinks moved on.
At a red light, I glance up at the mirror. My face looks fine. Normal. Unbothered.
I almost believe it.
But the ache doesn’t go anywhere. It just shifts, quiet, patient, still there.
Maybe Ellie’s right. I never stopped loving Jace. I just got better at hiding it.
The light turns green. I drive home through the drizzle, the city around me soft and half-asleep.
I built a life that looks like moving on, but it keeps pulling me back to where I started.