55. Alana
ALANA
Ididn’t expect to see Asiya again. Not ever, honestly.
But she was standing outside my apartment door like a ghost I hadn’t thought about in weeks.
Her hair was pulled back like it always used to be when she was trying to look “put together,” but her eyes gave her away.
She looked nervous. Like she didn’t know if I was going to slam the door in her face or let her in.
I should’ve slammed the door, but I didn’t.
Instead, I stepped aside and let her walk in, even though my gut was already screaming that this wasn’t going to change anything.
“Hey,” she said, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Thanks for… letting me come up.”
I didn’t answer.
She sat on the edge of the couch like she didn’t know if she was staying long or would leave again in a second.
“It’s been a minute, huh?” she said with a nervous laugh.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been thinking about everything that happened. And I know I messed up. Bad. I said things I didn’t mean. I was… in a weird place.”
That line again. Everyone’s always “in a weird place” when they hurt you.
I stared at her, and for a second I thought I might feel something. Anger, sadness, maybe nostalgia for how we used to be.
But all I felt was… numb.
She kept going, like she hadn’t noticed. “I was jealous. You had this whole new thing going on with Eden, and your life just looked so perfect. And I felt left behind. I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
Her words sounded rehearsed, like something she practiced in the mirror. The kind of apology that’s supposed to make everything okay, like pressing an undo button.
“You hurt me,” I said, quiet but firm.
“I know,” she said quickly. “I was awful to you, and I hate how things ended. I’ve just been carrying that around, and I needed to say sorry. For real.”
And just like that, the weirdest thing happened.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t feel lighter. Or healed. Or relieved that she finally came around. I just kind of wanted her to leave so I could keep being sad about Eden in peace.
Because that’s what had been eating me up the weeks—not her. Not our friendship.
Him.
Eden.
And not just the way I lost him, but why I lost him. Because I pushed him away. Because I let my fear be louder than the truth.
Because I looked at someone who gave me everything and still said, “What am I supposed to think about someone with a reputation like yours?”
God, that line still made me sick to my stomach.
“I’m not mad at you anymore,” I said, cutting off whatever else she was about to say.
Asiya blinked. “You’re not?”
“No. I just… don’t care, I guess. That sounds mean, but it’s not meant to be. I simply moved on.”
Her face fell. “So, that’s it? We’re just not friends anymore?”
“I don’t think we’ve been friends for a long time.”
It was quiet for a second. Then she nodded, slowly, and stood up. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Probably.”
She gave me this sad little smile, the kind people give you when they want to seem changed but are still hoping you’ll say “it’s okay” and invite them to brunch.
But I didn’t.
And when the door shut behind her when she left, it felt final. Not in a tragic, heartbroken way, though.
I sat down on the couch and stared at my phone, flipping it over in my hand like it might do something. Like Eden might text, even though I knew he wouldn’t.
Why would he?
I said the worst thing possible to someone who had only ever shown me patience and softness. I shoved him away because I was scared of being happy. Because I’ve never really trusted anything that felt too good—figured it was just a setup for a letdown.
But Eden wasn’t a letdown. He never was. He was real, and good, and messy in the kind of way that made me feel safe. Like maybe it was okay to want things. Like maybe love didn’t have to be something that hurt.
And I blew it.
The more I thought about it, the worse it got. I kept replaying that night—his voice shaking, eyes so damn sad, trying to explain something that wasn’t even his fault. And I didn’t listen. I didn’t even give him the chance to.
All because I was fucked up.
I didn’t lose Eden. I threw him away.
I stood up suddenly, heart pounding. The baby shower was tomorrow.
He was probably baking today, doing all those little desserts we used to make together.
Mille-feuille, fruit tarts, cupcakes—he used to mess them up so bad and still somehow make them taste good.
Well, it was my recipe, but that didn’t matter.
And now he was doing it without me.
He should’ve had someone there to help. Not just anyone. Me.
He deserved someone who didn’t flinch at the first sign of love. Someone who stayed.
I opened our old messages. Nothing since that night.
I typed:
“Hey.”
Then deleted it.
He didn’t deserve a text. He deserved more than that.
I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and headed out before I could think too hard about it.
If I wanted to fix this—even just apologize, even if he didn’t forgive me—I needed to show up.
For once in my life, I needed to stop running and show up.