I hadn’t heard from her in 3 months.
Not a word, not a text, not even a like on a post.
And now this.
My stomach twisted.
I clicked it open.
The message was short.
“Hey Dylan, I know this is random, but I could really use your advice. Something happened and I didn’t know who else to ask. Please don’t delete this. Can we talk?”
No context, no apology, no mention of the dinner, just that vague, desperate, dangling.
I didn’t know what to think.
Had something happened?
Was she okay?
Was this another game?
I didn’t reply.
Not yet.
But I didn’t delete it either.
And that night, as I stared at the glowing screen in my dark apartment, I felt something I hadn’t expected to feel again.
Not pain, not rage, not even pity, power.
For the first time in my life, I was on the other side of the silence.
And she knew it.
What she didn’t know, what none of them knew was how much I’d changed since that night.
How the fall hadn’t broken me.
How the silence had taught me something far more valuable than approval.
It taught me who I was when nobody clapped.
But if you think that’s where the story ends, you’re wrong.
Because when I finally agreed to meet with her, she told me something that flipped everything upside down.
And it made me realize this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
She chose a little cafe in Midtown.
Neutral ground, quiet, not the kind of place we used to go to as kids, and definitely not one of the rooftop champagne spots she usually tagged on her Instagram stories.
Just four tables, brick walls, and coffee served in mismatched mugs.
It almost felt intentional, like she wanted to strip away the image, pretend for a moment she was someone else.
I got there 10 minutes early.
That was always my thing.
She showed up 10 minutes late.
That was always hers.
When she walked in, I almost didn’t recognize her.
Not because she looked bad.
Belle never looked bad, but because she looked smaller.
No makeup, dark circles under her eyes, oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame.
She didn’t even straighten her hair.
“Hey,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me.
No hug, no fake cheer, just that single syllable and a look that was more nervous than I’d ever seen on her face.
I nodded.
The silence between us felt like a wall.
Not tension, just wait.
A history too big to name in a single breath.
She fiddled with a packet of sugar until it tore in half.
Granules spilling across the table.
“I’m guessing you’re wondering why I reached out,” she finally said.
“I had a few guesses.”
She gave a dry laugh.
“Yeah, probably all of them better than the real reason.”
I didn’t say anything, just waited.
Then she took a breath and said it.
“Lucas left.”
Three words.
That was it.
But they hit like a car crash.
“Two weeks ago,” she added quickly, like filling the space would make it hurt less. “Just packed up and disappeared. Told me over text. Said he needed to reclaim his identity or whatever. Blocked me on everything the next day.”
I blinked.
Not because I was shocked he left.
If anything, I was shocked he stuck around that long, but because of how she said it.
Flat.
Hollow.