Chapter One | The Ring
My phone rang.
That ring—his ring. The one I’d assigned only to him. The one I hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. It was unmistakable. Sharp, specific, almost cruel in how quickly it dragged me backward in time. The sound echoed, not just in the room, but through my chest, like a phantom heartbeat that didn’t belong to me anymore.
And just like that, I was back there—the day I last saw him.
The day I last saw Sam.
There hadn’t been any dramatic farewell or grand gesture. Just the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily between us. But I knew, even then, in the quiet of that fading afternoon, that this was it. I might have been naive in other parts of life, but not this. Not him. I understood with perfect clarity that I would never see Sam again. Not like that. Not as my friend. Not as anything.
We were mismatched from the start. I felt too much, too loudly, too openly. My emotions didn’t just live on my sleeve—they clung to me like second skin. And Sam... well, Sam didn’t seem to feel at all. At least, not in any way he was willing to admit.
I flirted like it was a language I was born speaking—effortless and warm, yet always stopping short of saying what I meant. My soul reached out when I connected with someone—and that terrified people. Especially Sam.
Because he had nothing to reach back with. No compassion. No tenderness. No capacity, it seemed, for intimacy or vulnerability. And yet—yet—I had seen something else. A flicker. A version of him buried so deeply beneath the surface, even he didn’t know it existed. A version suffocating under the weight of everything he wouldn’t say.
It had been easy for a while. Friendship had worked. Until it didn’t.
Until the silence between our sentences started feeling like missed chances. Until his jokes started sounding like confessions disguised in sarcasm. Until I realized he was guarding something—maybe his peace, maybe his pride, or maybe something even more fragile.
That day, I waited for him. Alone. Sitting on the edge of my open hatchback, legs swinging gently, hands trembling. Not from the cold, but from the question I didn’t dare ask:
Is there one thing you’ll regret not saying? Not doing?
But I knew better than to ask. Sam would dodge it. Make a joke. Pretend it didn’t matter and change the subject like it never crossed his mind. That was his way. Like his heart. Dodging any chance of it being cracked open.
And then there he was, walking over with that same slow, deliberate stride—so familiar and yet so distant. He didn't shave today. His beard grew longer with his chiseled chin. Covering up the gentleness I know he has, but it burdens him. His hair, as dark as his monochromatic style. It was longer. As if he intentionally knew I wanted to run my hands through it. So he refused his usual cut.
He joined me on the back of the car. No words at first. Just the soft tension of two people who wanted to say something and couldn’t.
We bantered, of course. Laughed too easily. Fell into that old rhythm like slipping on a worn jacket that still somehow fit. The sarcasm flowed, barbed and honest in that way only we could manage. We were always good at hiding truths inside jokes.
But time was slipping.
Eventually, he stood—the signal. The unspoken this is it. I felt it in my chest like a slow crack forming. He stepped in closer, pausing as if testing boundaries we never crossed. His body between my knees. His hand brushed my thigh. Intentional? Maybe. Unintentional? Also maybe. That was the thing with Sam—his touch always walked the line between what was and what could’ve been.
We hugged.
I tried to keep it short, knowing if I held on even a second longer, I’d fall apart. But I also didn’t want to let go. I hadn’t yet realized that this was the moment I’d replay again and again—the final one. The last warmth. The last almost.
And then it was over.
I got in my car. Left. Drove away from him, from us, from the thousand possible things that would never be. I had gathered all the missing moments I could in those last 48 hours. And then…
They were gone.
Just like Sam.
