My sad love

The sculpture garden behind west Dorm was nearly always empty. Most students didn't bother with it—it was quiet, slightly overgrown, and lacked the Insta-aesthetic that the main campus quad had. But Fiona liked it here.

No filters. No judging eyes. Just her and the wind and the old iron sculpture that looked like a bird taking flight.

She sat under it now, knees pulled to her chest, eyes stinging in that too-familiar way. Not because of George. Not this time.

This time, it was the date.

July 22nd.

Every year, it came like a whisper and left like a bruise.

Her mother had left on a July 22nd.

Fourteen-year-old Fiona had come home from a summer writing workshop—excited to show off her short story that won second place in the county competition. She'd even gotten a certificate with her name printed in blue calligraphy.

The front door was unlocked. The house was too quiet.

And then she saw it.

The envelope.

One of those cheap white ones, the kind people kept in junk drawers. Her name was written on the front in slanted handwriting—her mom's rushed, looping script.

Inside:

Fiona, I can't do this anymore. I love you, but I have to go find myself again. You'll be okay. You're strong. Love, Mom.

That was it. No contact information. No warning. No goodbye kiss. Just a note and the faint smell of lavender oil still lingering on the hallway mirror.

She never came back.

Fiona blinked up at the sky, remembering the sound of her dad breaking a plate in the kitchen that night. Remembering how he never talked about it again. How they all just… moved on.

Sort of.

Because Fiona never really did.

That note had carved itself into her bones. Every achievement, every birthday, every award ceremony—she looked out at the crowd wondering if her mom might be in it. Maybe sitting in the back, sunglasses on, watching from a distance. Like in the movies.

But real life wasn't a movie.

Real life was silence. And a voicemail box that always said: "This number is no longer in service."

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't bother wiping it.

She hadn't told George about her mom. Not really. She'd hinted once—something vague about "my mom and I aren't close"—but she'd never told him what it felt like to be left behind like a sweater someone forgot on purpose.

She wasn't sure she ever would.

Because George came from a world where leaving wasn't even an option. Where wealth built walls high enough to keep most heartbreak out.

He wouldn't understand. Not fully.

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of the spiral.

Dad: Hope you're okay today, kiddo. You don't have to call. Just thinking about you.

Her heart pinched. He never said her mom's name either. But he remembered the date. He always did.

Fiona: Thanks, Dad. I'm okay. Just needed some quiet.

Dad: Proud of you always. ❤️

Later that night, Fiona stood in her dorm room alone. Lila had gone out for late-night fries. George hadn't texted since yesterday.

She reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a notebook. Not her school one. Not the planner. This one was older—beaten up, spiral-bound, pages dog-eared and full of sharp, honest ink.

She flipped to a page she hadn't read in a long time.

July 22, two years ago.

I keep telling myself she had a reason.

I keep pretending it was about her.

But what if it was about me?

What if I was too much—too loud, too stubborn, too needy?

What if she looked at me and saw everything she hated about herself?

Fiona closed the notebook and leaned her forehead against it. There were some pains you didn't grow out of. You just got better at hiding them.

At 1:17 a.m., her phone buzzed again.

George.

George: I couldn't sleep.

George: Are you okay?

Fiona stared at the screen.

He didn't know the date. But somehow, he knew.

She replied.

Fiona: Not really.

George: Want to talk about it?

Fiona: Maybe not talk. Just… be.

After a few seconds:

George: Meet me at the observatory in 20?

The observatory was another secret corner of Kingswood—open 24 hours for astronomy students, but most of the campus forgot it even existed. Fiona reached it first, breath fogging slightly in the cool night air. She pulled her hoodie tighter, staring up at the stars.

She didn't hear him come in. She just felt his presence beside her, warm and steady.

Neither of them spoke.

She didn't have to explain. He didn't need to ask.

They just sat together in silence, heads tilted toward the sky, letting the weight of her sadness settle between them like mist. No pressure. No judgment.

Just the kind of presence her mother had never been able to offer.

And the kind she never realized she needed.

Until now.

The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was safe. The kind you could settle into like a soft blanket. The kind you didn't want to break.

But eventually, George did.

His voice was low. Gentle.

"Fiona… what happened?"

She didn't answer right away.

The stars above Kingswood glittered like diamonds tossed into ink, and somewhere far below, the world kept spinning. But in this little dome, it was just them. Just honesty waiting to be told.

Fiona's fingers toyed with the drawstrings of her hoodie. "It's the date."

George tilted his head. "The twenty-second?"

She nodded. "Every year, it shows up like a shadow."

George waited.

"My mom left on this day when I was fourteen," she said, eyes still on the sky. "Just a note on the hallway table. No explanation. No contact since."

George turned fully to her now, silent.

"I came home from a writing competition," she continued, voice growing quieter. "I was so excited to tell her I'd won something. Second place. I even got a certificate with my name on it. But when I walked in... the house was empty. My dad didn't know. I didn't know. She just… left."

George blinked, the weight of her words pressing down like gravity.

"She said she had to find herself," Fiona said, her voice sharp with buried pain. "Like I was some kind of distraction. Or a mistake."

George reached out slowly, his fingers brushing hers. "I'm so sorry."

Fiona swallowed. "I didn't talk about it. Not with anyone. Not even Lila. I pretended it didn't matter. But every year, on this day… I feel like that fourteen-year-old girl again. Like I wasn't enough to stay for."

George's jaw clenched. Not in anger at her—but at the world that had treated her so unfairly.

"You were always enough," he said quietly. "She wasn't."

Fiona looked at him then, eyes glassy. "You really think that?"

"I know that."

She let out a shaky breath. "Sometimes I wonder if I keep messing things up because deep down, I think I'll be left again. Like I'm just waiting for people to walk out."

George was quiet for a beat.

Then he said, "Is that why you pushed me away?"

Fiona looked down. "Maybe. I think I wanted to test how far I could bend you before you broke. That way, I wouldn't be surprised when you eventually left."

George gently reached out and took her hand again, this time lacing his fingers through hers.

"I almost did," he admitted. "But I didn't."

"I know."

"You hurt me, Fiona. You really did."

"I know."

"But today? This? You being here. Letting me see this part of you… It means more than any apology."

She turned toward him, surprised.

"I'm not going to pretend I've forgiven everything," George said. "But I want to try."

Fiona's eyes filled again, but this time it wasn't from pain. "Really?"

He nodded. "But you have to let me in. Not just when it's easy. Especially when it's hard."

"I'm not good at that."

"I'll wait while you figure it out."

They sat in silence again, but this time, it felt different.

Not the quiet of broken things.

The quiet of something beginning again.

After a while, Fiona leaned her head on his shoulder.

George didn't say anything.

He just stayed still.

Steady.

Present.

And for the first time in a long time, Fiona felt something closer to peace.