18. What Really Happened in 2025 #2
Three days passed—filled with moments that felt like they were waiting for something that never came.
No messages.
No calls.
No “are you home?” or “did you get there safe?”
Nothing.
And I told myself I was fine. That maybe we both just needed space. That maybe he was waiting too. That maybe this was what two people did after a fight: step back, breathe, come back calmer.
I let myself believe that.
Until the third night.
I was lying in bed, lights off, the room dim except for the soft glow of my phone resting beside me.
I wasn’t doing anything with it. But I kept waking the screen, checking, just in case his name would finally appear.
Nothing came.
So I picked it up and opened Instagram.
I scrolled. Paused. Scrolled again.
And then… there he was.
Victor.
He posted a story.
I stared at that small circle for a second longer than I needed to, like my brain was trying to catch up to what my eyes had already seen.
Then I tapped.
It opened to a dimly lit venue—some kind of event I didn’t know about. Music in the background, low but alive. People dressed up, moving, talking, laughing like the night had somewhere to go.
And then the camera shifted.
Him.
Standing with a drink in his hand, talking to someone off-frame. Relaxed. Composed. Effortless in the way he always was.
He looked good.
Not just okay.
Good.
Like nothing had happened.
Like the last three days hadn’t existed at all.
I didn’t realize I had stopped breathing until the story peeled on to the next person.
But I swiped it back and watched it again.
Same laugh. Same posture. Same easy way he carried himself like the world hadn’t tilted even just a little.
I exited.
Then, a second later, I opened it again—just to make sure I didn’t miss anything: a crack in his expression, a hint of sadness in his eyes, fakeness in his smile… anything that said he felt it too.
Nothing.
He looked exactly the same.
And that was the part that got me.
He looked okay.
Like whatever we had—whatever I thought we had—wasn’t heavy enough to follow him like a ghost into the next day.
My chest tightened, something sharp and quiet pressing underneath it, because I had spent the last three days sitting in it. In the hurt. In the gnawing ache beneath my ribs. Replaying everything. Every word. Every look. Every moment leading up to that night.
And he… he was just there. Unbothered.
I swallowed, my thumb trembling over the screen, like I didn’t know what to do with it now.
Message him?
Say something?
Pretend I didn’t see it?
I locked my phone instead and set it face down beside me.
But the image stayed in my mind: him, in that soft light, laughing at something I wasn’t part of.
And suddenly, tears came. Soft at first. Then heavier. Because my chest tightened even more as a truth settled in: the silence between us didn’t feel mutual anymore.
It felt one-sided.
Like I was the only one standing in the aftermath, while he had already walked out of it.
I didn’t even remember falling asleep.
I just remembered crying… and then nothing.
And then, suddenly, I woke up.
The room was still dark—the kind of dark that told me it was the middle of the night, when everything felt heavier than it should.
For a second, I didn’t move.
Then instinct kicked in.
My hand reached for the phone, unlocked it, and still found nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. No name lighting up my screen like I had hoped it would.
My chest hadn’t even gotten the chance to rest.
I stared at it for a few seconds, as though something might change if I just waited a little more.
It didn’t.
And just like that, the tears came again—almost second nature. But this time, it felt deeper, because it was starting to feel real now.
The silence.
The distance.
Him.
I turned on my side, pressing my face into the pillow like that would somehow hold everything in—but it didn’t. It just made the ache feel closer.
God, I missed him!
I missed him in a way that felt physical, like something had been taken out of me, and my body didn’t know how to function without it.
And I couldn’t take it anymore.
So I grabbed my phone again and opened our messages.
I stared at it for a few seconds, thinking about what to say.
Then I started typing.
Hey, I know you’re mad at me, and I get it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I was just frustrated because I just wanted to be there for you. I didn’t mean to make things worse. I feel awful and selfish. I’m so sorry.
I still love you.
I read it once. Twice. Three times. Many times, thinking how I could soften it. Fix it. Or make it land better.
But then I pressed send.
The message sat there, but I didn’t wait for a reply, because I knew he was asleep.
So I locked my phone and held it against my chest, like it could give something back.
And eventually, exhaustion pulled me under again.
When I woke up, the light was already too bright.
10:02 A.M.
I was late for work, but I didn’t move right away. Because before anything else—before work, before panic, before reality—I reached for my phone, opened it, and… nothing.
My chest caved in.
I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe, trying to reason through it.
Maybe he was still asleep?
Maybe he saw it and didn’t know what to say yet?
Maybe—
I opened Instagram, and there he was. Online. Right now.
The air left my lungs, my vision spinning, like the world tilted slightly off its axis under the weight of the glorious pain twisting in my heart.
Because it meant he had his phone… he was awake… he just didn’t reply.
I stared at it longer than I should have, trying to understand if this was torture, and that if this was his way of punishing me: silence.
To me, it seemed so cruel.
The green dot stayed.
And so did the silence.
My vision blurred even more before I realized I was crying again.
Four days later and still nothing.
At some point, time stopped feeling normal.
Mornings didn’t feel like beginnings—they felt like a burden.
Nights didn’t feel like endings—they felt like punishment.
Every day just stretched too long, too quiet, too empty.
Sometimes I would wake up and, for a second, feel okay, thinking I could get through the day. Then something small would happen: a notification that wasn’t him, a moment of silence, a memory that came crashing.
And just like that, I’d spiral again.
Work also became background noise.
Voices in my headset blurred together—customers talking, scripts repeating—but none of it stayed.
I’d catch myself staring at the screen for too long, not realizing how much time had passed.
Or sometimes I’d forget what I was supposed to say.
There were moments I muted calls just to breathe.
Moments I stared at the blinking cursor like it expected something from me that I couldn’t give.
My mind wasn’t present. It kept going back to Victor.
And when it got too loud, I’d go to the toilet, lock the door, and cry.
Not loudly but just enough to get the pain out my chest… or at least make space for it.
Then I’d wash my face, look at myself in the mirror, and go back to pretending I was okay.
But I wasn’t.
I was barely functioning… and it showed in my work.
But then day five came.
For the first time, my phone lit up and his name appeared.
My chest tightened so fast it hurt.
I opened it immediately.
I’ve been thinking about us.
I read it once… then again… slower this time.
I’m still hurt about what you did. You know I’ve had past relationships that weren’t good for me. And what you did just triggered something I didn’t expect.
Each word landed carefully. Measured. Controlled. He had taken time to make sure it sounded right.
I swallowed, my fingers already moving.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got overwhelmed.
Can we talk? I wanna see you and explain.
The typing bubble didn’t come right away.
So I waited…
And waited…
Until finally—
I’m not sure.
That was it.
Not a yes. Not a no. But something to keep me hanging by the edge.
Hopeful, but close to dying.
I stared at the message, my chest tightening again—but this time, it wasn’t just pain. It was urgency.
Because suddenly, waiting didn’t feel like an option anymore.
I needed to see him. To fix it. To make sure we weren’t ending like this.
So before I could overthink it, I grabbed my things and went to his apartment.
Three knocks on his door—the sound echoed louder than it should have.
A few seconds passed, and then the door opened.
Victor stood there. And for a moment, everything stilled, because I saw the love of my life again.
But he looked… different.
Not undone. Not broken. But tired.
There was a heaviness in his eyes, something faintly guarded beneath the surface. Like he hadn’t been sleeping well. Like something had lingered with him, too.
And for a brief, fragile heartbeat, relief slipped into my chest. Because I knew he was affected too. That this—us—mattered to him too.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
He stepped aside, wordlessly.
I walked in.
In the living room, we sat across from each other.
Same place. Same people. But everything felt unfamiliar now.
Victor leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the edge of the couch.
There was a space between us that hadn’t been there before. I could feel it, yet I still tried to deny it.
I sat forward, hands clasped together, trying to steady them.
But the silence stretched—heavy and unforgiving.
I swallowed. “How are you?”
He didn’t look at me right away.
“I’m okay,” he said.
Okay.
The word sat there, hollow.
I nodded, even if it didn’t feel like enough.
“I… I wanted to see you,” I started, my voice catching slightly. “I just—I didn’t want to do this over text.”
He didn’t respond. He just watched.
And there was something in his expression.
My God!
It wasn’t anger. Not even sadness. It was just… distance. He became a ghost I could see but couldn’t touch.
Still, I forced myself to continue.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words coming out quicker now, like I was afraid they wouldn’t land if I didn’t say them fast enough. “For—for what I said. For how I said it. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I didn’t mean to come at you like that.”