Chapter 1: The Last Unsent Message

Have you ever wondered exactly when you let go of someone you really loved? Like, truly let them go?

For me, it happened on a totally average Tuesday. It just hit me, all at once.

It was one of those forgettable Tuesdays that slips by without warning. Nothing special. Just gray sky, campus traffic humming, and that burnt coffee smell clinging to my coat. Nothing remarkable, really—except for the way everything inside me quietly shifted, like I’d suddenly woken up in my own life.

I didn’t send some dramatic goodbye text, didn’t post a cryptic story on Instagram, didn’t even tell my friends.

No Taylor Swift lyric bombs on my feed, no group chat meltdown, not even a single meme to hint at heartbreak. I just kept going, like nothing happened—even though everything had.

That’s all it took. I just didn’t reply... to the last message he sent me on Facebook Messenger.

Usually, I was the one who got the last word with Brandon Callahan. But this time was different—he messaged me first: “What was the name of that amazing Korean BBQ spot you mentioned at Riverwalk Plaza?”

His little avatar popped up on my screen—same profile pic from high school graduation, never bothered to change it. For a second, my thumbs almost flew to reply, like always. But I just… didn’t.

At that moment, I was sitting with my advisor, talking about my study abroad plans. My phone lit up with his notification—his face smiling up at me—and I just set it aside. Didn’t answer.

My advisor was explaining the housing situation for the exchange program, her words smooth but her hands fidgeting with a pen. I forced a smile. Tucked my phone away. Nodded, pretending nothing happened.

I managed a quick, “Sorry, go ahead. I’m listening.”

She gave me that look adults get when they think you’re just distracted by something silly. She probably thought I was texting about lunch. I tried to focus on the paperwork, letting Brandon’s message fade into the background.

Honestly, I just forgot.

It wasn’t until I left the coffee shop that I saw he’d sent another message—a single question mark.

That little question mark just stared at me—familiar, but totally empty. I could almost hear his voice. Low. A little impatient. The way he got when he thought I was ignoring him.

Only then did I remember I hadn’t answered him.

That was weird for me. I’m usually pretty chill—always busy with classes, internships, lab reports. But any free time I had? It went to Brandon.

He was the only person I pinned to the top of Messenger. He was the exception. Always.

My phone lived on Do Not Disturb, but Brandon’s messages always got through. Even when everything else was chaos, he was my one constant notification.

Whenever he messaged me first, I’d smile—couldn’t help it—and I’d reply right away, all eager.

Even if his replies were short and distant.

Sometimes I’d just stare at those three dots, hoping for more, but all I’d get was a one-word answer or a thumbs-up. Didn’t matter. I always answered. Always tried.

This time, I sent him the restaurant’s name. No explanation for why it took me six hours. Just the name, nothing else.

For the first time, he actually asked, “Busy?”

I didn’t answer.

Why didn’t I reply? Maybe because I was about to graduate—finals, thesis, all the paperwork for going abroad. Maybe because I was drowning in to-dos.

Or maybe—honestly?—I was just tired. Tired of always being the one who cared, tired of being on-call for someone who never really was for me. I scrolled through our old chats, noticing the lopsided pattern of blue and gray bubbles—Messenger blue for me, gray for him.

Scrolling down, I saw Mariah had sent me a pin and a text.

It was that same Korean BBQ place Brandon wanted.

“Lila, come over after you finish with Dr. Stewart. We’re celebrating.”

I grinned and shot back, “On my way.”

There was something easy about Mariah’s messages—straightforward, no games. I could already hear her laughing in a corner booth, K-pop thumping from the speakers.

By the time I got there, Mariah had already ordered.

The new grilled eel dish looked wild, and I nudged Mariah. “This looks insane.”

She yanked her fork back, rolled her eyes, and groaned, “Come on, get a pic.”

She waggled her eyebrows, phone up, like this was some sacred food ritual.

I blinked. “Wait, what am I even supposed to take a picture of?”

She stared at me, surprised. “What? You’re not gonna send Brandon a food pic on Messenger?”

I just shrugged, smiled. “What’s there to share?”

Mariah snorted, but I caught a flicker of relief in her eyes. She took a bite, then pointed her fork at me. “You know, you’re acting different lately. In a good way.”

She chewed, watching me, then suddenly laughed. “You figured it out, huh? You’re actually doing better.”

I didn’t ask her what she meant by ‘better.’

My friends never really liked Brandon. Or, at first, when we started college and everyone found out he was my boyfriend, they were all jealous. Mariah even asked me, all dreamy, how she could land a guy like that. We were that couple people rolled their eyes at.

At freshman orientation, we were the couple everyone whispered about, the ones who made the rest of us look basic. Mariah used to joke we belonged on a college brochure.

But later, when Brandon’s reputation as a flirt got around—drifting from girl to girl—their envy disappeared.

They’d joke, like, did he save you from a burning building in a past life or something? Why else would you put up with this?

Once, when one of Brandon’s messy situations confronted me, Mariah snapped: “He’s a jerk, no matter how hot or smart he is. Seriously, what do you even see in him?”

I didn’t answer. Looking back, I probably loved the Brandon from when we were kids—the one who made promises and meant them.