Each word feels like it's being carved directly into my heart. This isn't just a song—it's every moment we've shared, every silent understanding, every time he looked at me like I was his entire world.

And yet, it's not enough to drown out the ache, the hollow, gnawing pain of his absence. The memory of him is both a comfort and a curse—a reminder of what we had and what we've lost. He might love me, maybe even more than I'll ever fully understand. The evidence is right here, in every carefully chosen song, in every word he's written, in this melody that feels like it's been orchestrated straight from his heart.

The conflict claws at me, my heart pulling me toward him even as my mind warns me to let go. I close my eyes, exhaling shakily as the question I've been avoiding rises to the surface, bitter and unavoidable.

How long am I supposed to keep waiting for someone who might never come back?

Even if he's written our love into the stars themselves, even if he's left pieces of his heart scattered around me like breadcrumbs leading home.

Morning sun filters through the trees as Jake and I glide down the familiar stretch of road, the rhythmic hum of bike tires on asphalt filling the space between us. It feels like a lifetime since I felt this alive, since I let my legs push against the pedals with purpose.

Jake rides beside me, his protective gaze catching every bump in the road before I do. I insisted on this ride. I needed something to remind me of who I was before life got so complicated. And Jake, as always, didn't argue. He never does when it's something I need.

Corrigan's Bakery appears ahead, the smell of cinnamon and sugar wrapping around us like a warm hug from the past. The sign above the door still reads, "Best Cinnabons in Town" in bold cursive letters, though they're probably the only cinnabons within fifty miles.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries, the cozy café humming with low chatter and clinking mugs. Jake orders without asking—two cinnabons and two vanilla lattes, our usual. The cashier's smile holds recognition, like she's missed seeing us together in this familiar dance.

We settle at our corner table by the window. Jake takes an exaggerated bite of his cinnabon, making his typical face of pure bliss, trying to coax a smile from me like he always has. It works, and for a second, everything feels like it used to—before Nate, before the accident, before everything got so beautifully and terribly complicated.

But then his expression shifts. Something heavy settles in his eye, looking at me like he's been carrying these words for too long.