Chapter 12 The Things We Almost Say

The morning was quieter than it had any right to be.

The kind of quiet that pressed against his ribs, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to pretend that the stillness was peace and not punishment.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The same light that used to spill across her hair, across her laughter, across mornings that felt easier even when nothing else was.

The book lay where he left it last night.

He had meant to return it weeks ago.

He had meant a lot of things.

His fingers brushed the spine, feeling the faint crease down the middle  the mark she’d left when she used to fold it open and read half asleep beside him. He could almost hear her voice again, soft and uneven, stumbling on the same paragraph she loved too much to skip.

He smiled, faintly.

Then it hurt, immediately after.

It was strange, how love could linger even when the people didn’t. How it could sit between things  a mug on a counter, a word left unsent, a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to slow down.

He picked up the book and traced her name in his head.

He didn’t whisper it. Not anymore.

Names carried weight, and hers had begun to crush him.

The coffee on the table had gone cold, untouched. He wasn’t sure when he made it. Or why. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was just muscle memory trying to fill in the silence.

He stood, stretched, then walked toward the window. Outside, the city was waking horns, voices, a blur of movement. He used to like mornings. Now, every one felt like a reminder that time didn’t stop for the ones still bleeding inside.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from a friend  asking if he was coming to the game later. He stared at it, then turned the screen face down.

He wasn’t sure when he stopped answering.

Maybe it was around the same time he started missing her in quiet ways  not the dramatic ache, but the kind that settled into routine.

The kind that made him reach for an extra cup, even when he knew she wouldn’t be there to take it.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You need to stop this,” he muttered under his breath, though the words felt like an empty threat.

He placed the book in a small brown paper bag. He’d decided  he’d finally return it.

He told himself it was closure.

He didn’t believe it.

When he stepped outside, the morning air hit him, cool and restless. The world seemed louder than it should be, like it was mocking his stillness. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the bag tucked under his arm, and began to walk.

Every step toward her apartment felt like walking through memory. The path knew him  or maybe it knew them. He tried not to look at the spots where they used to stop, laugh, argue, exist. But his mind filled them in anyway.

By the time he reached her street, his chest felt tight.

He slowed down, the kind of hesitation that came before regret.

She was standing outside.

Not waiting for him  she didn’t even see him yet. She was just there, talking to someone, holding her phone and laughing  that soft, unguarded laugh he hadn’t heard in so long.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

She looked lighter. Not happier, necessarily, but calmer  as if she’d finally stopped carrying the version of him that once weighed her down.

He froze a few feet away, book still in hand.

She turned then, and for a second  just a second  their eyes met.

The world stilled.

He saw the flicker of recognition.

Then something gentler.

Then nothing at all.

She smiled  polite, almost distant  the kind that said, I remember, but I’m okay now.

He nodded back. The words he wanted to say tangled somewhere in his throat.

You look well.

I’m sorry.

I’m still trying to let you go.

He said none of them.

Instead, he held the paper bag out to her. “You left this,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Her fingers brushed his when she took it.

It lasted half a heartbeat  maybe less  but it was enough to bring everything back: the warmth, the ache, the memory of being known.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “I almost forgot about it.”

He nodded again. “Yeah… happens.”

They stood there, silence crowding between them like something alive.

He wanted to ask how she’d been, if mornings still felt heavy for her too, if she still played that same song when it rained. But the questions sat quietly on his tongue, afraid of what the answers might sound like.

So instead, he said the safest thing.

“Take care of yourself.”

She smiled again  this time smaller, realer. “You too.”

He walked away before she could see his eyes.

Before he could change his mind.

Each step felt heavier than the last, but there was something else beneath it something close to relief. Like maybe this was what letting go really was: not forgetting, not healing all at once, but learning how to walk away without needing to turn back.

By the time he reached the end of the street, he stopped and glanced back.

She was still there, holding the book, watching him go.

He didn’t wave.

She didn’t call out.

And yet, somehow, that silence said everything they had once failed to.

Later that night, he sat on his balcony, city lights stretching beneath him. He could still see her face every time he blinked, but it no longer burned  it just lingered.

He picked up his phone, opened a blank note, and typed the words he couldn’t say aloud:

I hope the next person knows how to hold you without breaking something sacred.

And if not  I hope you remember you’ve always been enough, even when I didn’t see it soon enough.

He didn’t send it.

He just saved it, closed the app, and let the quiet return.

For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel unbearable.

It felt… final.

And maybe that was enough.