Though I am alone and miserable in a hollow-sounding penthouse, Ellie appears to be enjoying the best of her life. The photos show her seemingly loving every moment. There she is, hiking a sun-drenched trail, and I can almost smell the pine, like I’m right there with her. In another, she is laughing with friends at a café, and I’m haunted by the sound, a melody I can no longer hear for real.
She’s morphed into someone new, leaving behind the shy wallflower I used to know, but no matter what kind of person she is now, I know my feelings won’t change.
My own stress halts momentarily as I consume each recent photo, and I fall into the bad habit of drinking in the old ones, too. I scroll back, back, back through years I wasn’t a part of, searching for a trace of the girl I knew in the woman she’s become. I look for a shadow in her eyes, a hint of a sadness that mirrors my own—some pathetic proof that our ending left her empty, too. But I never find it. She looks whole. She looks happy.
That’s what happens when years pass by without a single conversation. Most people move on. The ones who don’t are like me, clinging to photos.
Last month, it was Ellie’s birthday. Twenty-eight years old now. The number feels like a physical weight in my chest. Twenty-eight. I’ve missed out on ten of them. A decade of candles I didn’t see her blow out, of celebrations we’ve never shared.
In the photo, she’s hugging another woman, someone with a few more age lines. Probably a co-worker, if I have to guess. They’re in her home, celebrating in a quiet place instead of going out. Her home. I scour the pixels, desperate for any updates I can soak up.
Then I see them. In the background, a splash of vibrant color on a kitchen counter. The flowers. The ludicrously expensive orchids I had sent as a present to her workplace in a moment of weakness. Happy to see them flourishing in the background instead of trying to survive inside a trash can, my mouth curves enough to catch my assistant’s eye. It’s a fragile, fleeting victory—a tiny piece of me, accepted into her orbit. Before Francine can ask, the smile is gone, shuttered away.
She’s gorgeous, just as she is in every photo. No longer the lanky freshman with braces that I remember, a girl all sharp angles and shy grins. She’s got curves now, a woman’s confident posture, and a smile worth showing. Breathtaking.
Back then, I thought she was cute, adorable, even. A fondness, a protectiveness. Now, just looking at her makes my pants tighter, my heart beats out of rhythm—a frantic, stumbling cadence that belongs only to her.
Doesn’t help that every time I soak in a new photo, I’m waiting to see one with a man. One with a ring on her finger. One that gives away any signs that she’s spoken for. After all this time, somehow, she’s as alone as I am.
It’s a miracle, but a haunting tease each time I go through this.
I shouldn’t have any right to stalk her like this. It’s pathetic, but it’s everything.
There’s something about seeing Ellie’s smiling face that does something to my chest, a visceral pull that is equal parts ecstasy and agony. The knot that’s always there only grows tighter, a tangled mess of regret and want.
She’s all grown up now, as am I. She’s no longer ‘Owen’s little sister’, no longer a line I couldn’t cross. That old barrier is dust. The only thing separating our worlds is my own fear at this point.
Can’t even blame my parents on this one. Now that they don’t have to manage this company, they’re retired. Once I stepped into the role I was born for, they stopped micro-managing after the first year.
I have no excuses for keeping me away, do I?
A dangerous, terrifying thought ignites in the lonely corners of my mind.
What if I’m the one to step back over the line? Not as the boy she once knew, but as the man who has never, not for a single day, stopped being hers.
“Sir?” Francine tilts her head. “Your answer?”
Exiting out of the app and pulling up my contacts, I scroll down to stare at her number. Is it still in use? I haven’t received a call in so long, there’s no telling if the number even belongs to her anymore.
Would she answer if I called her? What about a text?
Could I convince her to attend a boring gala and pretend to be mine for a night? Knowing me, I’ll want to drag it out even longer.
“Tell them I’ll be bringing someone.” Brows pinching together, my thumb hesitates over her contact. “An old friend, if they ask.”
Her brows lift in surprise, and I know she wants to ask who, just like others will. Instead, she bites her lip and tries to contain a smile. “Yes, sir.”
If I can’t convince Ellie to agree, then I may have to follow my assistant’s advice. Settle down and move on. I can’t keep holding myself back because of feelings that’ll never be answered.
2
Ellie
The soft sounds of my sniffles are almost drowned out by the crinkle of plastic and Talia’s enthusiastic chewing. On the screen, the couple I’d invested my hope in was imploding under a cinematic downpour. So much for my chosen rom-com; this felt more like a tragedy in a pretty dress.
“Think they made her wear white on purpose?” Talia muses around a mouthful of pretzels, gesturing with her glass toward the weeping actress who is standing under a downpour. “Seems cruel.”
They’re having a soul-crushing breakup, and she’s critiquing the costume design? I just shrug, sipping my wine to disguise the way my throat tightens. The actor’s face is a masterpiece of pained betrayal, and it hits me right in the hollow part of my chest.
