Chapter 48 Unspoken Loss
Unspoken Loss
Chase Montgomery had lost a lot in his life.
Lost games. Lost fights. Lost bets with his friends over the dumbest shit imaginable.
Lost time chasing dreams that never quite took shape, hours slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing behind but the weight of failure.
Lost money on investments that seemed foolproof until they weren’t.
Lost sleep over decisions he couldn’t take back.
Lost parts of himself in the process, pieces chipped away by the relentless cycle of trying, failing, and forcing himself to keep going.
But none of it—none of it—came close to losing her.
Losing Savannah Monroe wasn’t a single moment, wasn’t a neatly contained tragedy with a beginning and an end.
It wasn’t just the night she stood on his porch, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she was holding in all the things she couldn’t say.
It wasn’t just the way her eyes shimmered in the porchlight, the way her voice wavered when she whispered words that shattered him.
No, losing her was a slow, agonizing process, a cut that bled out over time, leaving him hollow long before she ever walked away.
It was a wound that never quite healed, an ache that settled deep into his chest, constant and unrelenting.
Some days, he could almost fool himself into thinking he was okay.
That he had moved on, that he had learned to live with the absence of her, with the spaces she used to fill.
But then something small—a scent, a song, a laugh from across the room that sounded too much like hers—would unravel him all over again.
Now, he sat on the edge of the dock, elbows resting on his knees, fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass that he hadn’t actually taken a sip from.
The water stretched out before him, dark and endless, reflecting the fading light of the setting sun.
It should have been calming. It used to be.
The dock had always been his refuge—the one place where the world made sense, where the weight of everything could roll off his shoulders and disappear into the steady rhythm of the waves. But not anymore.
Now, it only reminded him of her.
Of the way she used to sit between his legs, back resting against his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arms. Of the way she used to tilt her head back, letting the wind tangle in her hair, eyes closed, lips curling in quiet contentment.
Of the way she used to laugh, that soft, unguarded sound that made him feel like maybe—just maybe—there was something good in this world meant just for him.
But she was gone.
And the dock was just wood and nails again.
The night was settling in now, the sky shifting from deep orange to navy, and the first hints of stars peeked through the darkness.
The sound of crickets filled the silence, blending with the rhythmic lapping of water against the dock posts.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a rough hand over the stubble on his jaw as if the motion could wipe away the thoughts that clung to him.
It had been a few days since Mallory called, and yet, her words still echoed in his mind.
He hadn’t expected it to matter. Hadn’t expected her voice to stir up anything more than a mild irritation at hearing from someone who knew him too well.
But it had been good to talk to her—better than he wanted to admit.
He had forgotten what it was like to have an easy conversation, to talk to someone who didn’t need him to explain himself.
Mallory had always been blunt, never one to dance around the truth, and maybe that was exactly what he needed.
She didn’t bullshit him. Didn’t coddle him.
And when she mentioned Savannah—when she said her name like it was just another name, like it wasn’t a grenade tossed straight into his chest—he had asked about her before he could stop himself.
The words slipped out, unintentional, instinctual.
And the second they left his mouth, he knew.
He still cared.
Still wanted to know if she was okay, if she was happy, if she had found whatever it was she had been looking for when she walked away. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself admit it—maybe, just maybe, he had been waiting for her to come back.
But she hadn’t.
And she wouldn’t.
Savannah Monroe had made her choice, and no matter how many times he replayed that night, no matter how many ways he tried to rewrite the past in his mind, the outcome never changed. She left. And he stayed. And that was that.
He was moving forward. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
But forward didn’t mean forgetting. Not when every inch of this damn place was still tangled up with her memory.
Not when his bed still smelled like her for weeks after she left.
Not when he found strands of her hair in places they had no business being—woven into the fabric of his favorite hoodie, clinging to the bathroom tile, caught in the bristles of his damn toothbrush.
Not when he still caught himself scanning a crowded bar for her, knowing damn well she wouldn’t be there.
Chase let out a slow breath, staring at the whiskey glass in his hand.
The ice had melted, the liquor watered down and lifeless, but he wasn’t drinking it anyway.
He wasn’t sure when the house had stopped feeling like home—maybe the second she walked out the door, maybe long before that.
Without her, it was just walls and floors and furniture, just echoes of what used to be.
Which was why he was selling it.
The realtor was coming next week to take photos. Soon, someone else would live here, someone else would sit on this dock and make new memories, rewriting the ones he had been holding onto for too damn long. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was time.
Pushing himself to his feet, he pocketed his phone and stepped inside.
He moved through the house on autopilot, past the couch where she used to curl up with a book, past the kitchen where she used to steal sips of his coffee before making her own.
He stopped in the bedroom doorway, staring at the empty bed, at the hollow space where she used to be.
Then, he turned.
Walked to the desk.
Grabbed a sheet of paper.
Picked up a pen.
The dock was quieter when he stepped back outside, the world slipping into the hush of night, the water smooth as glass beneath the moonlight. He sank into the chair, stretched his legs out in front of him, and stared out at the horizon.
And then—he started to write.
Not a text. Not an email. Not something easy, something he could delete before he ever had to send it.
No, this was real.
A letter.
Something she would never see. Something she would never read.
But he wrote it anyway.
Because even after all this time—after all the silence, after all the nights spent trying to forget—
She was still the only person he wanted to talk to.
Dear Savannah,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because it’s easier than saying it out loud. Maybe because putting it down on paper makes it feel less like a confession and more like a release. Or maybe—