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Grief is a funny thing.
Sometimes, it makes you cry until your lungs collapse.
Other times, it makes you clean your entire apartment at 2 a.m.
And on rare nights, it gives you just enough courage to ask the questions you swore you'd never ask.
Like:
Why did he really leave me?
Who was he afraid of?
And why does my heart still beat in his absence?
---
I met Isla Rayne at a corner café on a grey Thursday.
She wore a rust-colored coat and smelled like peppermint oil and bad decisions. Her hair was longer than I remembered, braided down her back like it had a memory of its own.
When she saw me, her smile was small. Apologetic.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said.
"I wasn't sure either," I replied, sliding into the seat opposite her.
We sat in silence for a minute.
Not awkward—just heavy.
The kind of silence two people share when they're both survivors of the same war but from opposite trenches.
---
"I didn't know how much you meant to him," Isla began. "Until after."
"After what?" I asked, voice low.
Isla looked around. Then leaned closer.
"After he started getting those messages."
I blinked. "What messages?"
She sighed. "Someone was threatening him. Not directly. Indirectly. Saying if he didn't walk away from you, you'd suffer. That someone would ruin your art career. Leak photos. Accuse him of things. Destroy you—quietly, socially, permanently."
I stared at her. The café spun slightly.
"He told me he could survive being hated," Isla continued, "but he couldn't survive watching you be ruined because of him."
My hands trembled on the table. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"Because Luca was impulsive," she said. "But not when it came to you. You were the only thing he protected quietly."
---
I felt like my lungs were filled with cement.
All this time, I thought he'd left because he didn't love me enough.
But now it seemed… maybe he loved me too much to stay.
That didn't make the pain less cruel.
It just changed its shape.
---
Later that evening, I found Zayne waiting by my front steps.
He stood with his journal in one hand and takeaway noodles in the other. He didn't smile when he saw me. He just looked at me.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked softly.
I sank onto the step beside him. "No."
"Did you find something else?"
"Yes."
We ate in silence. The wind moved through the trees like it was searching for something lost.
Zayne didn't ask more questions.
Instead, after a while, he handed me a page torn from his journal.
On it was a poem:
> Some people leave to protect you,
Some leave to escape you,
But the worst kind of leaving…
Is the one done in silence, where love still lingers like perfume on a coat you forgot to return.
---
That night, I didn't dream of Luca.
I dreamed of myself.
Strong. Alone. But not lonely.
And in the dream, I was painting again. Not grief—but release.
---
Meanwhile, Nia was unraveling in her own quiet corner of the world.
I found her the next morning curled on the bathroom floor, her makeup smudged, holding her phone like it was a grenade.
"What happened?" I whispered, kneeling beside her.
She looked at me, tears spilling.
"I told Anesu I hated him," she said. "But I don't. And I think that's what's killing me."
---
Grief doesn't just belong to lovers. It belongs to sisters. To best friends. To all the versions of ourselves we lose when people leave.
---
Later, I opened a message from Isla.
> Isla:
You should know… Luca left something with me. A letter. He said if you ever came looking, I was to give it to you.
If you're ready—I'll send it.
I stared at my phone for what felt like forever.
Then I typed back:
> Send it.
---
And just like that, the truth was on its way.
Folded in ink.
Sealed with regret.
Waiting to break me open.
---