I hung up and immediately blocked him everywhere–phone, social media, everything. I deleted all posts about him, but
ten years was too much. No matter how much I scrolled and deleted, it never felt clean.
At ten, he climbed through my window to wipe my tears. At fifteen, he carried me on his bike through locust–scented
streets. At eighteen, he sang love songs under stars, eyes burning bright. At twenty, he stood on stage while I captured his
radiant profile from the corner.
Each photo held moments I thought were unbreakable.
My fingers mechanically swiped and deleted.
I suddenly remembered a line from classical poetry I’d read: [All things have beginnings, but few reach their end.]
Stories start like beautiful dreams, but endings come unexpectedly, leaving devastation.
They say heartbreak is a delayed, dull knife–and the belated ache hit me like a tide.
Tears dropped onto the screen, not for him, but for the me who had given everything for ten years.
Until a tissue appeared. Adrian had been sitting quietly beside me, witnessing it all.
I awkwardly took it and roughly wiped my tears. “Sorry… I…”
My throat choked up, unable to finish.
“Give me your phone, I’ll help you delete.” He extended his hand, his tone calm and natural. “You got up early today, sleep
for a while. I’ll wake you when it’s time to board.”
He placed an earbud in my palm. “If you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and listen to music.”
He took my phone and handed me earbuds. Soothing jazz flowed through–each song perfectly matching my taste.
My tense nerves gradually relaxed, and between consciousness and sleep, I drifted off.
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