The Girl I Never Got Over

CHAPTER 17

Morning light slanted through the therapy room windows like it had no idea it was walking into a war zone. I was already on the mat, stretching, jaw tight, chest hollow. Every part of me felt like it didn’t fit right. Too much tension in my limbs. Too much silence in my head. Too many things I didn’t say when I had the chance.

The door opened.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Morning,” I answered.

That was it.

No joke. No smirk. No teasing. Just one word. My throat burned with everything else I wanted to say—but I swallowed it whole.

She glanced at me. I felt it. But I didn’t meet her eyes.

“Let’s get started,” she said, her voice clipped, too smooth. It didn’t sound like her. It sounded like Dr. Morgan—the version of her I hadn’t seen since before we started falling back into each other.

“Okay,” I murmured.

I followed her instructions like I was wired for it. Like if I just moved the way she wanted, maybe I could go back in time and fix everything. My chest ached. My lungs felt tight. Her fingers brushed my knee to adjust it and I nearly lost my breath.

But I kept my face blank. I didn’t dare look at her.

Because if I looked, I’d probably say her name.

If I said her name, I might not stop there.

So I stayed quiet.

And when the session ended, I just nodded. “Thanks.”

She answered, “See you tomorrow,” like we hadn’t kissed like lunatics two nights ago. Like I hadn’t whispered “don’t go” into her mouth.

I left the room before I could say something stupid like I miss you already.

***

I sat on the floor of my apartment, the balance board under my feet, my back against the wall. No music. No distractions. Just the rhythmic pull of muscles and the sound of my breath. I could hear Raphina moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, cursing under his breath at my complete lack of clean dishes.

“Yo,” he called. “You know the top shelf of your fridge has four different containers of expired yogurt, right?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I like to watch them age.”

He leaned in the doorway, sipping from a protein shake he definitely didn’t make here. “So. You gonna talk about it?”

“No.”

“She told you she’s leaving. You kissed her anyway. And now you’re both pretending nothing happened.”

I shot him a look. “I said no.”

He threw up his hands. “Fine. Be emotionally constipated. But you look like someone who got benched and dumped in the same week.”

I rubbed my face with both hands. “She’s not mine to lose, man. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, biting into a granola bar, “she must have looked like yours when you were kissing her like she was the only air in the room.”

I didn’t respond.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

I sat alone on my balcony, the city humming beneath me. I held the sketch in my lap—the logo I made for us. For something we could’ve built together.

It was still warm from her hands earlier this week.

My thumb traced her name.

I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again after next week. I didn’t know if London was goodbye forever or just for now.

All I knew was, I’d offered something real.

And for the first time in my life, it wasn’t enough.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

“I chose Madrid,” I whispered into the night. “But I would’ve chosen you.”