“This isn’t over; we’ll never be over,” as he ran after the car. It was over. Even if it felt like I was dying as I drove away. Even if I cried the entire drive home and then for days and weeks after. He went west the next day—to bright lights and red carpets and dreams so big they barely fit inside movie screens. And I stayed. Quietly. Hollowed out. Pretending I hadn’t just let go of the only real thing I’d ever felt.
