Chapter 2

Ariella

My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a sight so familiar it felt almost rehearsed, like waking up into a memory I hadn’t known I’d carried with me. The light was soft, diffused through gauzy curtains that swayed gently in the breeze, casting faint, golden streaks across the room. The air smelled faintly of something I couldn’t place—warm and familiar, like freshly washed linen mingled with the faintest trace of cologne. It wasn’t overpowering, just enough to pull me back into a sense of comfort and calm.

For a few moments, I lay still, letting my gaze wander. The worn-out edges of the furniture, the subtle hum of life just beyond the window, even the muted creak of the floorboards as the wind shifted—it all felt too specific to be random. This wasn’t just a room. It was the room. A place I had known once, maybe in a different lifetime. The familiarity wasn’t just visual; it was visceral, a quiet stirring in my chest like something too personal to name.

I let the silence settle over me, heavy but not suffocating, until my eyes drifted to the small table by the bed. There it was—my old phone, lying exactly as I’d left it all those years ago. The sight of it made my stomach drop. Its sleek surface had dulled over time, the corners chipped, the faint scratches on the screen catching the light in uneven lines. It looked worn, but it was unmistakably mine. Holding my breath, I sat up slowly, reaching for it like it might vanish if I moved too quickly.

The weight of the phone in my hand sent a jolt through me, pulling me fully into the present. Memories, buried under years of dust, began to stir. My eyes swept across the room, and for the first time, I noticed the walls—every inch of them covered in photos. His photos.

The sight knocked the breath from me. His face stared back at me from every angle, his expression frozen in time: laughing, serious, casual, candid. They weren’t just random snapshots—they were moments, fragments of a story I had told myself for far too long. Some were worn at the edges, others carefully preserved in frames, but they all shared the same haunting truth.

I could feel my pulse quicken as my gaze swept to the shelves. They were crowded with objects that screamed of him—remnants of a life I had once clung to like a lifeline. A dried rose, fragile and crumbling, sat in a small vase, a relic from a day I couldn’t even fully remember. A ticket stub lay tucked beside it, and though I couldn’t recall the movie, I could remember the way I had stolen glances at him instead of the screen. And then there was his sweater, draped over the back of a chair. I had taken it once, telling myself it was to “borrow,” but really, it was to feel close to him in a way I could never actually be.

The weight of it all crushed me. I had spent so long on the periphery of his life, orbiting him like a moon that couldn’t pull away. He had never let me in—never truly. Back then, I told myself it didn’t matter, that loving him from afar was enough. I had trained myself to be content with scraps: his photos, the objects he touched, the words he tossed my way like breadcrumbs. And yet, standing in this room now, it was impossible to ignore how much I had lost trying to love someone who had never reached back.

My chest tightened as I turned my attention back to the phone in my hands. The screen flickered to life with a soft glow, its familiar wallpaper pulling me deeper into the haze of the past. My fingers hovered over the lock screen. The password. I racked my brain, trying to remember it. And then it hit me like a gut punch.

His birthday.

Of course.

My hands moved on autopilot, the muscle memory kicking in as I tapped the numbers. The phone unlocked instantly, and the sight of the home screen—the apps, the messages, the photos—dragged me under a tidal wave of emotion. Back then, every password I’d had was the same: his birthday. My phone, my laptop, my email, even accounts I no longer used. Everything had revolved around him. I had tied every small detail of my life to him, as if I were afraid that letting go even slightly would sever my connection to him completely.

Now, holding the phone, I felt as though I were holding a version of myself I didn’t recognize anymore. A girl so hopelessly infatuated, so willing to disappear into someone else’s shadow, that she had given away pieces of herself she would never get back.

The photos on the wall seemed to press closer, their gazes unyielding. They weren’t comforting anymore; they felt like witnesses to my self-betrayal. The silence in the room shifted—it was no longer serene. It was heavy, suffocating, a weight I hadn’t felt in years but could never fully escape.

I closed my eyes, clutching the phone tightly as I fought back the rush of emotions threatening to drown me. Was this room a chance to finally let go, to reclaim the pieces of myself I had left behind? Or was it a cruel reminder, a prison of my own making, forcing me to relive all the ways I had loved and lost?

Either way, I couldn’t deny it any longer. This wasn’t heaven. This was a reckoning.

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