Emily said she’d realized too late that she’d made things worse.

But honestly? I didn’t even blame her.
Because deep down, I think that if Sarah had really wanted me — if she had loved me the way I loved her — she wouldn’t have needed anyone to tell her what I was planning.
She would’ve known.

The Party

Fast forward to December.
It had been almost a year since the breakup. I’d started feeling like myself again. I even smiled at things without forcing it.

When Christmas rolled around, I went back to my hometown for the holidays. My friends decided to throw a reunion party — everyone who’d moved away was coming back for a night.
And of course, Sarah was invited.

I told myself I didn’t care.
That I’d be civil. Mature. Whatever.
But when I saw her — laughing, radiant, talking to a group of people like she didn’t still haunt me — my chest tightened.

And then she smiled.
That same smile that had wrecked me the first time I saw it.
It hit me like a punch to the gut.

How could I still feel that way after everything?
How could part of me still want her, even after she’d shattered me?

Part 2 – The Ghost That Wouldn’t Leave

That night at the party, I did my best to stay invisible.
I talked to my friends, laughed when they laughed, sipped my drink. But every few minutes my eyes would find her again. It was like some stupid reflex I couldn’t control.

Sarah was across the room, animated as ever, her hands flying as she told a story to a circle of old coworkers. That same charm that drew me in once upon a time was still there, magnetic, bright.
But there was something else behind it too—something tight, forced, like she was working hard to convince herself she was fine.

She caught me looking once.
And for a second—just one second—our eyes locked.

She smiled. I didn’t.

I turned away first. Because I knew if I didn’t, I might walk across that room and forget every reason I’d had to leave.

After the Party

I spent the next few days at my parents’ house, helping Dad fix the old deck and pretending everything was normal. But late at night, my thoughts went back to her. That smile. That small, ridiculous flicker of what used to be.

I hated myself for it.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, one of my old friends pulled me aside. “Hey, man,” he said quietly, “I didn’t want to tell you this, but you should know. Sarah’s thing with that guy from work? It didn’t last. They broke up a few months ago.”

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and walked away.
What was there to say? It didn’t make any difference now.

But the worst part?
Knowing she’d thrown everything away—for nothing.
And somehow, that hurt even more.

The Ride Request

I had to head back to my new city after the holidays. My vacation ended January 6th, so I planned to leave on Friday to give myself a weekend to settle in again.

On Thursday night, I got a call from one of my hometown buddies. His voice had that careful tone people use when they know they’re about to ask for something you’ll hate.
“Hey,” he said, “so… this is kind of weird. But Sarah’s moving to your city.”

I froze. “What?”

“Yeah. Apparently she got a job with her uncle’s company there. And, uh… she needs a ride. Thought maybe you could—”

“No.”
The word came out before he could finish.

There was a pause. “Man, come on. It’d be good for you guys to talk—”

“No,” I repeated, sharper this time. “I’m not doing that.”

The idea of being trapped in a car with her for hours made my stomach twist. The smell of her perfume, her laugh, her voice—it would have destroyed whatever progress I’d made.

He sighed. “Alright. I get it.”

But the truth was, he didn’t.

The Park Encounter

Back in the city, things were quiet for a while. I went for my usual morning runs, worked long days, and tried to rebuild some sort of routine.

Then one afternoon, while I was cooling off in the park, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Hi.”

I froze.
That voice had lived in my dreams, in my nightmares, in my goddamn head for over a year.

I turned slowly.
There she was.

Sarah.

She looked the same and yet different—tired, maybe, or softer around the edges. She smiled nervously. “How are you?”

I stared at her for a long moment. “Why are you here?”

“I told you,” she said. “I moved here for work. I didn’t know you came to this park.”

I almost laughed. Of course she knew. It was too specific, too coincidental.

She tried to keep talking. “I just thought maybe we could catch up. We didn’t really get to talk at the party—”

“I don’t want to talk, Sarah.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything,” I said flatly. “I just don’t want to talk.”

She frowned, her voice lowering. “How can you still hate me after everything? It’s been over a year.”

I shook my head. “I don’t hate you. That’s the problem. I don’t hate you, I don’t even wish you bad. But talking to you—it still hurts. Thinking about you hurts. So I don’t.”

She stepped closer. “Then that’s exactly why we should talk. To move past it.”

I took a step back. “No, Sarah. That’s why I can’t.”

And then I walked away.

She called my name once, quietly. I didn’t turn around.

The Stalking Begins

She didn’t stop there.

A week later, she showed up outside my office building at lunch. “Coincidence,” she claimed, holding a coffee from the café downstairs.

Then again, two days after that, in the grocery store near my apartment. “Didn’t know you lived in this neighborhood,” she said, smiling like it was funny.

By the third time, I stopped believing in coincidences.

I blocked her number, her email, everything.
But she always found a way.

Once, she left a note under my windshield wiper. “Can we please talk? Just once?”

I tore it in half and threw it away.

My friends started to notice. Some said I was being too harsh. Others told me I should give her the closure she needed.

But closure isn’t a door you open together.
It’s the one you lock when you’re finally ready to stop going back inside.

Her Parents’ Call

By early February, I thought it was over.
Sarah had gone quiet. My life was normal again. Peaceful.

Then, one night, I got a call from an unknown number. I let it ring out, but it left a voicemail.
It was Sarah’s mother.

Her voice trembled. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s Mrs. Wilson. I’m so sorry to bother you, but could you please call me back? It’s about Sarah.”

I’d always liked her parents. They were kind, the sort of people who sent Christmas cards even after the first breakup.
So I called back, though my gut told me not to.

Her mom answered and immediately put me on speaker. “I hope that’s okay,” she said. “Her father’s here too.”

I braced myself for what I thought was coming—another attempt to make me talk to Sarah.
But it wasn’t.

“First,” her dad said, “we want to apologize for what’s been happening. For Sarah’s behavior.”

I was caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” he interrupted. “We do. We had no idea she’d been showing up where you were. She told us she moved for work, but… we recently found out she’s been trying to see you. We’re sorry.”

Her mom sighed. “We talked to her. Had a long, hard conversation. She promised she’d leave you alone and see a therapist.”

For the first time in months, I felt relief.
Real, physical relief.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “I mean that.”

Before we hung up, her dad added softly, “You’re a good man, son. You didn’t deserve what happened. We just wanted you to know that.”

The Last Message

For a while, it was quiet again.
Then one night, I got a message from a mutual friend. “Sarah wanted me to tell you something,” she said. “She says she understands now. Why you won’t talk. She swears she won’t reach out again, but… she still thinks someday you should.”

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I typed back: “Please don’t bring her up again.”

And that was it.

Maybe she’ll keep her word. Maybe she won’t. But it doesn’t matter anymore. That part of my life is over. The part where I keep reopening the same wound just to see if it still hurts.

Moving On

I haven’t dated anyone since Sarah.
Not because I’m scared, but because I’m learning to be okay by myself again. To enjoy my own company without needing someone else’s reflection to make me feel whole.

I’ve been thinking about therapy too. About how easily I let guilt keep me tethered to people who hurt me.
But for now, I’m letting time do its work.
Letting the quiet feel like healing instead of loneliness.

Because sometimes walking away isn’t about running from someone—it’s about walking toward yourself.

And that’s where I am now.
Finally moving in the right direction.

The End.