Sometimes she just sat beside me, saying nothing.
And I saw—she looked at me differently now.
Only it was too late.
Not for her.
For me.
I realized: the love was gone.
I didn’t love her anymore.
I cared. I respected. I stayed close.
But nothing clenched in my chest.
The heart isn’t a switch.
You can’t just turn it back on
because things are suddenly right.
I could tell—she wanted to understand what she had lost.
But I…
I no longer wanted to be found.
A month later, she said she was transferring.
“New campus. New city. New me,” she smirked.
She left for another state.
New college. New friends.
New admirer.
She wrote once or twice.
Then disappeared.
Nicole was no longer part of my life.
Just part of my growing up.
Sometimes, you think you’ve met love.
But then you realize—
you’ve met yourself.
Chapter 4. After Her
When love leaves,
it leaves a trace.
Not always a scar.
Sometimes—just light.
Brief, like a sunbeam slipping through a window.
But you remember it.
Nicole left.
No drama.
No goodbye kisses, no movie-scene farewells, no “write me” promises.
She simply… stopped being around.
As if everything—those days, that time—had only ever belonged to campus.
To that autumn.
And when the snow came,
it melted everything away.
But I still thought of her.
Sometimes in the library.
Sometimes at the gym, when the music pounded in my ears and the thoughts—
in my heart.
Sometimes when I saw a girl in her style:
a sweater with a soft neckline, lace-up boots, hair in a messy bun.
I knew it wasn’t her.
But part of me still looked.
I used to wonder:
What if it had all been different?
What if she had chosen me from the start?
What if we hadn’t gotten lost in parties, in other people’s hands, in other people’s mistakes?
What if—back then—she had just paused
and asked herself:
What do I feel?
Because she was radiant.
Kind.
Beautiful.
There was so much life in her.
So much laughter, care, light.
She just moved too fast.
First the leap.
Then the thought.
I don’t blame her.
Maybe that’s how she survived—
starting fresh.
New state.
New roommate.
New boyfriend.
New Nicole.
A lot of people do that.
Run away—just to feel alive again.
And does she think of me?
Sometimes I want to believe—yes.
That somewhere, when she hears an accent like mine,
or sees black tea without sugar,
she remembers:
“There was one. Special. Quiet. Strong. Different.”