"You wanted to rebuild me.
But I was never rubble."
—June
⸻
Ethan
She was gone by morning.
No note. No message. Not even the sound of the door closing.
The apartment still smelled faintly like her—old wool, citrus shampoo, the distant trace of cold air. Her camera was gone. So was the green notebook she kept zipped inside her bag, the one she never let him read.
At first, he told himself she went for a walk.
Then, maybe a train ride.
Then, maybe she just needed space.
But by nightfall, the silence became something else.
A presence, not an absence.
Heavy. Intentional. Permanent.
⸻
DRAFT – EMAIL TO JUNE (unsent)
Subject: Just talk to me
I didn't mean to—
I didn't know it would feel like that.
You should've told me it hurt.
Can you just—
[deleted]
⸻
He walked the city for hours.
Through washed-out streets and storefront reflections that looked like memories.
Skies the color of dishwater.
Everything desaturated.
He dialed her number.
Hung up before the first ring.
Wrote a text. Erased it. Wrote another. Deleted that too.
⸻
EMPTY TEXT THREAD
Ethan:
Ethan:
Ethan:
Just ghosts, typing nothing.
⸻
He sat at the kitchen table that night, reading her note in his head.
Except there wasn't one.
So he wrote it for her. Again and again. Each version colder than the last.
"I need space."
"This was never mine."
"You don't know me. You just named me."
"You looked at me. But you didn't see."
He buried his face in his hands.
His world, so full of her, now echoed with the wrong kind of silence.
⸻
June
She didn't look back.
She boarded the train before sunrise, hoodie pulled low, headphones in. Her phone buzzed twice in her pocket—she didn't check.
The farther she went, the more the city lost shape. Buildings blurred. Noise softened. Everything became colorless, like the sky had finally exhaled.
She opened her notebook.
Wrote one line.
"Even borrowed light leaves a burn."
⸻
Ethan
Three days later, he received a package.
Inside:
Her film rolls.
One photo of the mine.
A pressed wildflower, folded in paper.
No note.
He stared at the film for hours, but didn't develop it.
Maybe some things are meant to stay in the dark.
⸻
FINAL TEXT (not sent)
Ethan:
I get it now.
Love isn't a frame.
It's letting the picture be blurry sometimes.
I'm sorry.
[message unsent]