Chapter 8
Monday came again.
Still no Aiden.
By then, the ache had dulled into something quieter. Not quite peace. Not quite pain.
Just… numb.
I didn't cry. I didn't delete our messages. I didn't even mention his name.
But Mia knew.
"You don't have to pretend you're okay," she said, slipping into the seat beside me.
I offered a half-smile. "I'm not pretending. I'm just… tired of feeling like I'm waiting for something that might not come back."
Mia didn't say he's probably just busy or maybe he lost his phone.
She just nodded. And stayed.
And honestly, that helped more than empty comfort ever could.
That afternoon, I went home and opened my sketchbook—the one Aiden once added a thorn to.
This time, I didn't draw a rose.
I drew a girl.
Small, quiet, sitting by a window.
Rain outside. Light inside.
Alone.
But not broken.
And for the first time in days, I didn't reach for my phone.
I reached for myself.
Because maybe love isn't about who texts first.
Maybe it's about learning when to stop whispering into silence.
And start listening to your own voice again.