CHAPTER 10: AND THEN....

The emptiness she left behind wasn't just silence; it was a vacuum that pulled at every corner of your existence. Days turned into weeks, and life, cruel in its relentless momentum, forced you forward even as every step felt like dragging yourself through broken glass. Her ghost lingered in the spaces she once filled—the scent of her perfume woven into your clothes, her laughter echoing in your memories, the way her fingers would brush against yours in those fleeting, tender moments.

But the ache didn't remain stagnant. It evolved, sharpened, like a knife being ground to perfection. You began to see her in places she wasn't, flinching at the sight of a silhouette resembling hers, your breath catching at the sound of a laugh that was almost—but not quite—hers. Every reminder was a cruel jolt, an accusation that whispered you let her go.

And then came the photographs.

You found them one sleepless night, tucked into an old notebook she had given you on a whim. A series of candid shots, each frame a snapshot of a love you had believed to be indestructible. There she was, smiling, her eyes alight with that particular glow that had once made you feel invincible. You had taken those photos on a lazy Sunday, back when the world had felt like it existed just for the two of you. Her laughter had filled the room as you clicked away, both of you teasing and tumbling into each other, a blur of stolen kisses and whispered promises.

The notebook slipped from your hands, and the photographs scattered across the floor, each one a dagger to your heart. You found yourself on your knees, clutching the images, your tears blurring the lines between her face and your trembling hands. The realization struck you with brutal clarity: she wasn't coming back.

The first time you saw her again, it was accidental—or at least, you convinced yourself it was. It happened on an evening thick with rain, the kind of downpour that muddied the streets and painted the city in shades of gray. You had stopped into a small café to escape the storm, its warmth and the hum of quiet conversation a fleeting reprieve from the chill seeping into your bones.

And there she was.

She hadn't noticed you, seated by the window with a cup of tea in her hands, her gaze distant as the rain streaked the glass. Her hair was different, shorter than you remembered, but it suited her—made her look stronger somehow, even though her posture betrayed a weariness you recognized all too well.

Your first instinct was to approach her. To say something, anything that might bridge the chasm between you. But as your feet moved, your mind screamed at you to stop. What would you even say? What could possibly heal the wound that had already scarred over, jagged and uneven?

So, you watched from afar, your heart pounding painfully against your ribs. She looked peaceful, but not happy—content, perhaps, in the way one learns to be after giving up on something they once fought for. And then, as if sensing your gaze, she looked up.

Your eyes met, and time froze.

There was no dramatic gasp, no tears, no reunion laden with passionate words. Just a single look, heavy with the weight of what once was. Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to speak, but then she closed them again, her expression unreadable. She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She just held your gaze for a long, agonizing moment before turning back to her tea.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, unsure whether to feel relief or devastation. The rain outside blurred her figure, as though even the universe wanted to shield you from the sight of her slipping away once more.