Callum's POV
The mug of coffee in my hand had gone cold, but I hadn't moved.
Not since she left.
Not since the door closed behind her—soft, like an apology that never came.
I ran a hand through my hair, staring at the empty glass on the table—the one she drank from last night. Her lipstick still clung to the rim.
I should've known.
One night. A little whiskey. A lot of history. We were bound to crash into each other eventually. It wasn't just the alcohol. It was everything we didn't say for years.
The things I used to dream of... they finally happened.
And then she left before the sun came up.
Didn't even say goodbye.
Just a text later that read: "I'm okay. Thank you for last night."
Last night.
Like it was already a memory, fading.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
I'd spent years loving that girl in silence.
Watched her fall apart. Watched her rise again. And maybe I thought—for a second—that I could be part of her rebuilding.
But she's not mine.
She never was.
