Journey Back to Myself
The days that followed were a blur of emotions I couldn't name.
Shock. Grief. Rage. Emptiness.
And somewhere beneath it all, a faint flicker of relief. As if my heart, though broken, had finally stopped holding its breath.
The truth was out. The mask had fallen.
Daniel wasn't who I thought he was.
And now, there was nothing left to guess.
No more wondering, Did I do something wrong? No more replaying our conversations to find meaning in his silence. I had my answer.
But knowing the truth didn't make it any easier.
That night, Saraph took me home with her.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't pry.
She simply made a warm bed, placed a hot cup of tea on the nightstand, and sat by my side while I stared at the ceiling, too numb to cry.
"You don't have to talk," she said gently. "But when you're ready, I'm here. No judgment. No pressure. Just me."
I didn't reply.
I couldn't.
But her presence, the way she anchored the room with her quiet strength, kept me from sinking completely.
In the days that followed, Saraph became my safe harbor.
When I didn't want to eat, she made smoothies and left them at my door with sticky notes that said, "Just a few sips.
Do it for me."
When I couldn't bear to go to class, she brought me notes and sat on the edge of my bed, reading them out loud in her most dramatic voice to make me smile.
When I broke down without warning, sometimes in the middle of the night, she held me without asking for explanations.
And slowly, the fog began to lift.
Not all at once.
But in tiny fragments, sunlight through cracks.
One afternoon, as we sat on the grass beneath our favorite tree, she looked at me and said, "You know, heartbreak doesn't mean you're weak.
It means you dared to love. And that's brave."
I looked at her, my eyes red from another crying spell, and whispered, "But I feel so foolish.
Like I was the only one who didn't see it."
"No," she said firmly. "You saw who you wanted to see.
Because you believed in love.
You believed in someone's goodness. That's not foolish, Nuella. That's beautiful."
I sighed, burying my face in my knees. "I feel like I've lost myself."
She shook her head. "You haven't.
You're just finding a new version of yourself, one that's wiser, stronger, softer where it matters and sharper where it counts."
Her words touched something deep inside me.
In the quiet moments, I began journaling again. Pouring out the pain, not for anyone else, but for myself.
I let my tears stain the pages. I let my anger fill the margins. And as the ink bled, so did the poison in my chest.
Saraph suggested little healing rituals like writing a letter to Daniel I'd never send.
Or lighting a candle and naming my pain out loud before blowing it out.
At first, it all felt silly.
But strangely, it helped.
Each act was a small reclaiming of my power.
One evening, after a long walk, Saraph turned to me and said, "Do you want to talk about Jace?"
I looked at her, startled.
"You mentioned him that night," she continued gently. "How you ignored him because of Daniel.
Was there something real there?"
I hesitated, then nodded slowly. "There might've been.
But I thought it was better to focus on one person. I didn't want to start something while still unsure."
She smiled. "That's called integrity, Nuella. And not many people have it."
I looked away. "I wonder if he thinks I just discarded him."
"You can always clear that up later," she said. "But for now, let's focus on you.
Not Daniel. Not Jace. Just… you."
And that became the new goal.
I stopped checking Daniel's social media. I blocked his number. I didn't ask about him anymore.
Instead, I signed up for yoga classes with Saraph. I started painting again, even if it was just abstract swirls on cheap canvas.
I let myself laugh genuinely at silly memes, bad rom-coms, and Saraph's ridiculous impressions of our professors.
I even began dressing differently, not to look better, but to feel more me.
I bought myself flowers. I took long walks. I prayed more. Journaled more. Cried less.
Every day, I stitched myself back together.
And Saraph?
She was the thread.
One night, as we sat on her balcony watching the stars, I turned to her and said,
"Thank you for loving me through this."
She looked surprised. "You don't have to thank me for that. It's what friends do."
"No," I said, holding her gaze.
"Not every friend would have gone this far. You were my voice when I lost mine. My strength was when I was too tired to fight."
Tears shimmered in her eyes. "You would've done the same for me."
I smiled. "I hope I never have to. But if I do, I'll be there."
We sat in silence after that, letting the night hold us in its quiet embrace.
The healing wasn't linear.
Some days, I still woke up with heaviness in my chest.
But I was healing.
Slowly.
Steadily.
And with Saraph by my side, I knew I'd be okay, even better than okay.
Because love doesn't just come from romance.
Sometimes, the deepest love is the one that picks you off the floor, wipes your tears, and helps you remember who you are.
Between What Was and What Might Be
The skies had begun to shift from pale spring blue to deeper summer hues.
Campus was alive again with laughter in courtyards, rushing footsteps in hallways, and the usual buzz of approaching midterms.
Life had moved on, and so had I.
Or at least, I was learning how to.
It was a Wednesday when I saw Jace again.
He stood by the library steps, his camera slung across his shoulder, fingers scrolling through his phone with casual focus.
Time had only deepened the calm in his expression the kind of calm that wasn't loud, but comforting.
I hesitated for a second, unsure whether to approach.
But Saraph had said something earlier that lingered in my mind:
"You don't owe anyone a perfect explanation but if there's something you wish you'd handled better, it's okay to own that.
It's okay to make space for healing, even in friendships."
I stepped forward.
"Jace?"
He looked up, surprised. "Nuella."
A pause hung between us filled with things we never said, and things we didn't need to.
"Do you have a moment?" I asked.
He nodded. "Sure."
We walked toward the back of the library, where benches lined the quietest part of campus.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I breathed in, steady and honest.
"I'm sorry, Jace."
His brows furrowed slightly. "For what?"
"For pulling away. For ignoring you when you tried to be there for me.
I didn't mean to hurt you, but I know I did. And you didn't deserve that."
He was quiet for a while.
"I figured something was going on. But yeah… it did hurt. I thought we were building something, even if it wasn't labeled.
Then suddenly, I was just… out."
I nodded, guilt rising in my chest. "I was caught in something I didn't know how to explain.
I chose someone who… didn't choose me. But that's no excuse. I should've been honest."
He looked at me then not with anger, but clarity.
"Thank you," he said. "For saying that."
I offered a small smile. "I miss our conversations. The way you'd capture the sky like it had secrets only your lens could understand."
He chuckled softly. "Still chasing clouds. Still journaling sunsets."
I laughed, for real this time.
"Maybe," I said slowly, "we can start again. As friends. Just friends."
His smile was warm, and this time, it reached his eyes. "I'd like that."
And with that, something shifted in me not backwards, not forwards.
Just… peaceful. Not every relationship has to lead to romance. Sometimes, friendship is the gentler, truer path.
Meanwhile, Daniel's world was quietly crumbling.
He hadn't expected the silence.
He'd expected rage, maybe. Tears. Accusations.
But Nuella's silence? Her absence?
That stung.
Each time he passed her on campus and she looked through him like he didn't exist, a weight pressed harder against his chest.
He kept checking his phone hoping for a text that never came.
He hovered outside her lecture halls, just to catch a glimpse of her.
He wanted to believe it was just a phase.
That she'd come back like she always did. That he'd say the right words and somehow fix what he broke.
But Nuella had changed.
She no longer looked like someone waiting for him to choose her.
She looked like someone who had chosen herself.
And Daniel he felt that absence like a bruise he couldn't press without wincing.
The girl he'd chosen over Nuella?
Her name was Mira. She was sweet, clingy, quick to jealousy and lately, Daniel found himself growing cold toward her.
Because MIra didn't make him feel seen.
She didn't know what calmed him on anxious nights.
She didn't understand his dreams. She didn't challenge him, hold him accountable, or ask about his silence in the way Nuella once did.
He tried to pretend it didn't matter.
But at night, when the noise faded, her silence echoed loudest.
One afternoon, he passed by Saraph in the hallway.
She caught his glance, eyes icy and unreadable. She didn't greet him. She didn't even slow down.
And he knew whatever bridges he had, they were burnt.
Not by flame, but by indifference.
Back in my room, I sat by the window, a book in my lap and the evening sun warming my skin.
Saraph walked in, two mugs of tea in her hand.
"You okay?" she asked, handing me one.
I nodded. "Better than yesterday. Still healing. But I'm not breaking anymore."
She smiled. "You're stronger than you think."
"I have you," I said, taking a sip.
"You always will."
We clinked mugs.
Outside, the world spun quietly on.
Inside, my heart was slowly, but surely, finding its rhythm again.