17. Is Victor Really The One?
IS VICTOR REALLY THE ONE?
The next morning didn’t feel like a fresh start. It felt as though something unfinished carried over.
Victor’s place was quiet in that same controlled way it always was-: curtains half-drawn, light filtered just enough to soften everything. He seemed like the kind of person who didn’t allow the morning to come in too loud.
Anyway, he was already up when I stepped into the kitchen.
Hair slightly tousled. Tank top that fit him just right. Moving around like nothing in the world had shifted.
“Hey,” he said once he saw me. “You’re up.”
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice still catching up to me.
He slid a plate toward me.
Toast. Eggs. Something simple. Something easy.
“Eat,” he said. “You barely touched your dinner last night.”
I nodded and took the seat across from him.
For a while, we didn’t say anything. We just listened to the quiet clink of utensils and the low hum of the air-conditioning that filled the space between us.
It should’ve felt normal…
It almost did.
But something sat heavy in my chest, pressing just enough to make everything feel slightly off.
And Victor noticed.
“You’re quiet,” he said, not looking up from his plate.
“I’m always quiet,” I tried.
“Not like this.”
A pause.
I pushed my food around for a second, watching the yolk break without really meaning to.
“How did it go yesterday?” he asked.
I let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and something heavier.
“We fought.”
Victor didn’t react immediately. He just leaned slightly in his chair, waiting.
“They… did something,” I continued. “Something I didn’t expect.”
He tilted his head just enough. “Like?”
I hesitated.
“They were the reason my exes came back,” I said. “All three of them. The ones I told you about. On my birthday at the club, and throughout the weeks after.”
I let out a small, disbelieving breath. Even saying it out loud felt strange.
But Victor didn’t look shocked.
“They planned it,” I added. “They reached out to them. Set it up.”
Then I explained the situation in detail.
And right after, Victor’s expression didn’t change much. If anything, it settled.
“That’s… interesting,” he said.
Interesting.
Not crazy. Not messed up. Not unbelievable.
Just… interesting.
“They said they were trying to help,” I added quickly, like I needed to put that part in before it got lost.
Victor let out a breath through his nose—the closest thing to a reaction.
“Help,” he repeated.
I nodded.
“They thought if I saw my past clearly, I’d move on from you.”
That hung there for a second.
Then he asked, “Did it work?”
I looked at him, frowning slightly. “I’m still here.”
A small pause.
“They didn’t mean for it to… to turn into that,” I said. “The whole shenanigan was too much. I—” I stopped myself. “They just… didn’t think it through.”
Victor picked up his coffee, took a sip, then set it back down with precision.
“They went behind your back is what you’re saying,” he said, simply… cleanly. “They interfered with something personal. That’s not something people who care about you do.”
The words landed the way logic always does—neat, structured, and hard to argue with.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said resignedly.
“If that’s how they treat you, then you should leave your friends,” he said.
Just. Like. That.
No build-up. No weight. Like it was the simplest solution in the world.
“If they cross boundaries the way they did,” he continued, “you don’t need people like that in your life.”
‘People like that.’
I didn’t respond right away, because part of me understood what he meant.
But another part—something softer—didn’t sit right with how easily he said it.
Truth was, something in me didn’t follow. Because as I sat there, across from him, I couldn’t shake the feeling: how quickly he stepped away from something that felt complicated or how he easily reduced them into something disposable.
“They care,” I finally said, though it came out less certain than I intended. “They just… messed up.”
Victor held my gaze. “You sure?”
Two words.
That was all it took.
Just enough to make me question the ground I was standing on.
I looked away, swallowing, letting my eyes drift toward the city outside the window, hoping it would offer me clarity.
And for a second, I almost let it happen—almost let his version settle into something true.
But then memories slipped in…
Andi and I on the first day of college, introducing ourselves like we didn’t know we were about to become something permanent. Two strangers, sitting side by side in class, talking like we had already chosen each other.
“I already love you, James” she said. “And this is just the first day.”
Then a year later, at the hallway—running into Mel, who rolled her eyes at us.
She hated the clique Andi and I belonged.
Until one night the three of us found ourselves under the stars, sitting on cold pavement, talking about Francis, about classes, about the life ahead—like we already knew we’d be part of each other’s futures. Like it wasn’t a question anymore, just a fact we hadn’t said out loud.
And then graduation.
The three of us lying on the university grounds. Togas on. Caps tossed somewhere we didn’t bother to find. Laughter slipping into the open air, careless and loud and earned.
We made it.
And somehow, in between the chaos and change, we knew we weren’t letting go of each other even after.
The memory shifted. Andre—texting me every hour after Kyle and I broke up, like it was his full-time job to make sure I was still okay.
“Are you alive?”
“Did you drink water?”
“If you spiral, I’m coming over.”
“I’m serious, James.”
“I know you. You’re an adult, but still a baby at heart.”
“My date can wait. I’m coming over to take care of you. You’re my forever baby from now on.”
And then five minutes later—
“Also, Kyle is ugly. WTF did you see in him?” As though they weren’t friends.
I remember laughing through the ache. Because that was Andre: intense, overprotective, and somehow still ridiculous enough to make it easier to breathe.
Then Honey—always composed, always intentional.
I remembered seeing her standing in front of a mirror, turning slightly, tilting her chin, and adjusting an outfit like it was art, not clothing. She knew exactly who she was before the world even tried telling her otherwise.
She told me once, “If you’re going to be seen, at least be unforgettable.”
And then another memory of her on a random Tuesday night came flashing back. No make up. Hair tied back. Sitting beside me on the floor while I cried over Rick.
She didn’t say much for someone who always had the right words.
But she stayed.
That was her language too.
And then flashes of memories came rushing in—
All of us crammed into one table, laughing too loud in the middle of brunch. Telling each other inside jokes no one else would understand. Jokes that if it were to be heard by someone else, we would all go to jail.
Late nights that turned into early mornings, music playing from someone’s phone, bodies sprawled across couches and floors like we had nowhere else to be.
A trip out of town—windows down, Taylor Swift playing throughout the whole drive and no one complained because she was our common denominator.
Wind rushing in, Mel singing off-key while the rest of us complained at that.
Group photos where no one stood still long enough, because we were too busy laughing before the timer even went off.
Moments that didn’t try to be important—but somehow became my everything.
They were always there…
Messy. Loud. Overbearing, even.
But never absent.
Never indifferent.
They showed up again and again and again…
My constants.
My best friends.
So no, I never believed my friends did it on purpose.
Misguided, but never out of spite.
And no, I will never let them go.
The memories softened at the edges, then slowly slipped away.
And just like that, I was back in the quiet.
Victor sat there, exactly where he had been the entire time.
Unchanged. Composed. Untouched by any of it.
He was saying something—I caught the movement of his lips—but I hadn’t heard every single word.
I was too busy looking at him.
Really looking.
At the way he held himself together so effortlessly.
At how nothing seemed to cling to him—not tension, not conflict, not even the weight of what I had just told him.
Everything rolled off him.
And for a moment, I tried to remember: when did it stop feeling like that for me?
When did loving him start to feel like something I had to carry alone?
My chest tightened, because the answer didn’t come all at once.
It crept in.
Like something I had already lived through, but never fully allowed myself to revisit.
Not the good parts. Not the version of us. But the part where it all fell apart.
When was it that something small turned into something sharp?
When was it that something easy turned into something that cut?
When was it that Victor’s love stopped feeling like love and started feeling like a weapon turned against me?
When was it where I lost myself—instantly, brutally, without even realizing?
I swallowed, my gaze dropping to my plate, because I knew exactly where it led. I had just chosen not to look at it…
…until now.
And once the memory started pulling me back, it didn’t ask for permission.