Going to college together became their unspoken routine.
They walked the same roads every morning, shared earphones, complained about lectures, and split cheap coffee between classes. It was never planned. It simply happened—day after day—until togetherness felt as natural as breathing.
Cece had her first crush there. She talked about him too much, laughed a little louder when his name came up. Rowan listened without teasing, offering opinions he didn't quite mean and encouragement he meant even less.
Rowan had his first kiss too—brief, awkward, and nothing like the stories promised. He never told Cece how quickly it ended, or how little it stayed with him.
People tried, at first, to stay close to them. But being around Cece and Rowan felt like stepping into something already full. Partners grew uneasy, friends drifted away. Jealousy crept in where understanding couldn't.
So most of the time, it was just the two of them.
And they were happy that way—without naming it, without questioning it, without ever considering what it might cost them later. They stayed, not because they didn't have other choices, but because neither of them ever chose to leave.
every
On Rowan's birthday, Cece never left anything to chance.
She woke before sunrise, long before the world felt ready, and slipped out of her house with a list folded carefully in her pocket. Everything had to be right—not extravagant, not impressive—just perfect in the quiet way Rowan liked.
She found him first, of course. She always did. A small smile, a terrible excuse about coincidence, and suddenly the day belonged to them.
They went to the lake early, when the water was still and the air cool. Cece packed his favorite snacks, remembered the things he never bothered to ask for, and filled the silence with stories meant only to make him laugh. She watched closely—every smile, every softened expression—measuring success in moments rather than praise.
By afternoon, she dragged him through town, insisting on small rituals he pretended to protest and secretly enjoyed. She made sure he forgot, just for a day, how careful he usually was.
When evening came, they returned to his house, where his mother was already waiting. Dinner was warm and familiar, laughter easy, the kind that lingered long after the plates were cleared.
Rowan thanked her, softly, like he always did.
Cece waved it off, as if it meant nothing.
But she had spent the entire day proving something she didn't yet have a name for.
By twenty-four, life began to move forward—whether they were ready or not.
Rowan found a job. It wasn't glamorous, but it was steady, something he had worked toward carefully. Cece, meanwhile, drifted. She didn't do much beyond orbiting Rowan's world, but she had a gift she never fully claimed—she took photographs. Constantly. Streets, skies, strangers, moments others missed. And they were beautiful in a quiet, accidental way, much like her.
Cece mistook constancy for certainty.
One evening, fueled by courage she had borrowed from years of safety, she asked Rowan out. Not dramatically. Just honestly. Rowan said yes—not because he was sure, but because saying no felt like breaking something fragile. He told himself it would make her happy. That maybe happiness would grow into love.
For a while, it worked. Or at least, it looked like it did.
Then Rowan met Rasha.
She worked with him—sharp, perceptive, self-assured. Rasha asked questions that made him think and listened in a way that made him answer honestly. She didn't need him. She chose him. And the difference unsettled him more than he expected.
That was when the doubts began to surface—the kind that arrive quietly and refuse to leave.
Was it too early to say yes to Cece?
Had he confused history with destiny?
Was he doing what his mother once did—choosing safety over truth, comfort over clarity?
The thought terrified him.
Because suddenly, Rowan could see it clearly: what he had with Cece wasn't growing—it was repeating. Habit dressed up as love. And habits, he had learned, could quietly ruin lives if left unquestioned.
That was when things began to fall apart.
Not all at once. Not loudly.
But piece by piece—through silences, glances held too long, words left unsaid.
And for the first time in their lives, being together was no longer enough.
It started as an ordinary day.
Cece had woken up with a dull headache that refused to leave. By afternoon, it sat heavy behind her. Out of habit, she called Rowan.
"Can you take me to the doctor?" she asked, already knowing he usually would.
There was a pause on the line.
"I have some work," Rowan said. "Can we meet in the afternoon instead? I… I need to tell you something."
Something in his tone made her agree without asking questions.
They met later, sitting across from each other, the familiar space between them suddenly unfamiliar. Cece clutched a thin folder to her chest—photos, prescriptions, things that suddenly felt unimportant.
She opened her mouth first.
"I—"
"Let's break up, Cece."
The words landed wrong. Too sharp. Too sudden.
The folder slipped from her hands and fell to the ground, papers spilling everywhere. She didn't move to pick them up. In that single second, memories rushed at her—rain-soaked birthdays, grocery runs, the lake, laughter, silence, him.
Rowan kept talking, his voice careful, rehearsed.
"I think we need to rethink this. It's not… love. I love you, yes—but not as a life partner." He swallowed. "I think if we let this go now, we'll both stay sane. We should explore different worlds."
Cece stared at him, still trying to understand how a sentence could erase twenty years.
Rowan continued, softer now, almost pleading.
"I know. I can't believe I'm saying this either. But we'll always be together, okay? Just—just differently. Let's rethink. Let's try to be honest."
She nodded, because her body remembered how to respond to his voice even when her heart didn't.
But something inside her cracked—not loudly, not all at once. Just enough for everything she believed in to start leaking out.
And for the first time since childhood, Rowan wasn't there to catch her!!!