Valentine Henson and I were tangled up for ten whole years.

He wouldn't go public, so I waited. He said he was busy, so I behaved.

Until that night at the bar, when his buddies started egging him on with his childhood friend: "C'mon, wifey, pour one for Val!"

Rosalie Chambers, the girl who'd grown up by his side since they were kids, laughed and settled herself onto his lap.

Valentine didn't push her off. He even leaned down and fixed the strap that had slipped off her shoulder.

I stood outside the booth, holding the hangover tea I'd brought for him.

He saw me.

Our eyes met. His brow creased, just barely.

Then he looked away.

Rosalie leaned into his ear to whisper something, and he tilted his head to listen, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgent smile.

I stood there for a moment. Then I handed the tea to a server, turned around, and left.

Ten years.

And in his eyes, I didn't even deserve a glance.

I was halfway down the alley when his message came through:

"She had too much to drink and was just messing around. Don't overthink it."

I looked down and typed. My hands were steady.

"Valentine, I'm done waiting for you."

Then I blocked him.

The tenth year of us being together.

The year I finally let go.

...

I walked out of the alley, and the wind rushed in, cold against my back.

A November night. The hangover tea had gone cold long ago, but my palms still held a trace of warmth from the cup.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and realized my fingertips were trembling.

Not from the cold. From the emptiness.

The kind of emptiness that comes when someone reaches into your chest and rips out everything you've been carrying for ten years, and all that's left is a hollow space filled with wind, howling through you.

My phone buzzed again.

I didn't look.

I kept walking and passed a sweet potato cart, steam billowing off it, the sugary smell hitting me in a warm wave.

Back when he used to pick me up after work in the winter, he'd always buy one so I could warm my hands.

His hands were big enough to wrap around my entire fist. He'd walk beside me, complaining that my fingers were cold as a corpse.

"Valentine, your hands are so warm."

"No kidding. I just held a hot sweet potato for you."

I remembered the white puffs of his breath when he talked. The way he'd grab my hand and stuff it into his coat pocket without asking. The flicker of something soft in his eyes when he looked down at me.

I reached the intersection. Red light.

I stopped and stared at the countdown, the numbers glowing an angry red.

Sixty seconds.

An eternity.

My phone started buzzing again. Once. Twice. Three times.

I stared at the name flashing on the screen: "My Val."

I hadn't changed that contact name in ten years. He'd snatched my phone when we first got together and typed it in himself. All this time later, it was still those two words.

The screen lit up and went dark. Went dark and lit up again.

On the sixth call, I picked up.

"Where are you?"

His voice was tight, a little rushed. The background noise was loud, the sound of a bar door swinging open and shut.

Someone called out, "Val, where you going?"

"Walking," I said.

"Look, about what just happened, I swear I didn't know she was gonna do that. Everyone was egging it on and I couldn't just—"

"Valentine."

He paused. "What?"

The light turned green.

I stepped forward. My footsteps were even, one after another. Steady.

"I just changed that contact name," I said.

"...What?"

"You typed it in yourself, remember?" I said. "The contact name. You grabbed my phone and said I could only save that one. No other names allowed."

Two seconds of silence on the other end.

Then he laughed, that half-hearted laugh laced with exasperation. "That's it? You scared me. So change it. Just put it back the way it was."

"I changed it to your full name."

He stopped laughing.

"Valentine Henson," I said. "Your full name."

The wind cut through again. I pulled my coat tighter. On the sidewalk, a couple strolled past arm in arm, the girl holding a stick of candy, the boy leaning down to press a kiss to her hair.

"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice dropped low.

"Exactly what it sounds like."

"Because she sat on my lap?" His pitch climbed. "I already told you, she was drunk and messing around. You wanted me to shove her off in front of everyone? I grew up with her. Her parents know my parents. You want me to—"

"I know."

"You know, and you're still acting like this?"

"I know she's your childhood friend." I kept my voice steady. "I know your families are close. I know she's different to you. I know your whole group calls her 'wifey.' I know all of that."

He went quiet.

"Valentine, do you even know what today is?"

Silence.

"November seventeenth."

Still nothing.

"The Flower Vendor day we got together was November seventeenth," I said. "Ten years ago."

The wind picked up, stinging my eyes. I blinked hard and kept walking.

"I bought hangover tea. I wanted you to take it easy on the drinking. I got to the door and saw the whole group, so I figured I'd wait a minute before going in. Then I heard them egging her on. Heard her climb onto your lap. Heard you laughing with her."

"She really was just—"

"You didn't push her off." My voice was flat. "You saw me. You frowned for half a second. And then you looked away."

Silence.

"In that moment, I thought," I said, "what if it were me? Sitting on another man's lap. What would you do?"

He didn't answer.

"You'd leave. You'd turn around without a word and walk out. Then you'd wait for me to chase after you, wait for me to beg you not to go, wait for me to cry and swear I'd never do it again."

I laughed. I didn't even know what was funny.

"But I can't do that. All I can do is stand there holding a cup of stone-cold tea, waiting for whenever you decide to glance my way."

"I never asked you to wait." His voice was muffled, tight.

"Right." I swallowed. "You never asked me to wait. You just never made us public. Never talked about a future. Never said you liked me. Never said you loved me. You just let me guess on my own, wait on my own, lie to myself on my own."

I stopped beside a trash can and pulled the phone away from my ear.

"Valentine."

"Yeah."

"Have I ever told you I love you?"

A pause. "…You have."

"How many times?"

"I don't remember."

"Every single day." My throat ached. "Every morning when I woke up. Every night before I fell asleep. When I could see you. When I couldn't. Every single day."

He said nothing.

"How many times have you said it to me?"

Silence.

"Not once."

I pressed the phone back to my ear. My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Valentine, I'm done waiting for you."

Then I hung up. His name flashed on the screen, the phone buzzing with an incoming call. I swiped it away and blocked the number.

The phone went silent.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking. An overpass stretched ahead. I climbed the steps. Below, traffic surged in both directions, taillights bleeding together into a river of red.

Halfway across, an old man crouched beside a few bundles of wilting roses.

"Flowers, miss?"

I shook my head and walked past.

Two steps later, I turned back.

"How much?"

"A dollar."

I fished out the money and took a bunch. The roses were drooping, petals browning at the edges, but they still smelled sweet.

The old man pocketed the bill with a grin. "For your boyfriend?"

I looked down at the flowers in my hand.

"No," I said. "For me."

I walked to the other side of the overpass, held the bouquet up against the glow of a streetlamp, and took a photo.

Wilted roses, a November night, blurred streetlights.

I opened social media and posted the photo.

No caption.

After posting, I scrolled down and saw something Valentine had shared three hours ago. A group photo with his crew. He was in the middle, and Rosalie was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved into happy little crescents.

Caption: Old friends reunion.

I stared at those two words for a long time.

Old friends.

Oh. So she was an old friend.

Then what was I?

I kept scrolling, looking for some trace of myself. I scrolled for a long time. There was nothing. He had never once posted about me.

The only thing even remotely connected to me was from my birthday last year. He'd posted a photo of a dish I'd cooked.

Caption: Dinner.

Not even my shadow made it into the frame.

I put my phone away and walked down the overpass steps.

The wind had stopped. It felt like rain was coming.

I stood at the curb waiting for the bus. Fine threads of rain began to drift down, thin and cool against my skin.

My phone lit up again.

Not a call. A text.

Unknown number, but I knew who it was the second I saw it.

"Don't do this. Come home and we'll talk."

I stared at that word. Home.

The apartment we rented together. The curtains I'd picked out. The sheets I'd chosen. The dishes I'd bought. The pothos plant I'd kept alive on the windowsill. He called it home, but he spent half the month sleeping somewhere else.

I deleted the message.

Another one came through.

"She's really just like a little sister to me. I don't think of her that way."

Deleted.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? I didn't even finish my drink before I ran out. It's raining."

Deleted.

"Can you just say something? Anything?"

Then the last one.

"It's been ten years. You're really just going to walk away?"

I stared at that line. Rain dotted the screen, blurring the words.

Ten years.

Yeah. Ten years.

And what ten years had earned me was his buddies calling Rosalie "wifey" while they teased them together. It was the way he'd looked away from me when I stood outside that booth. It was him laughing and playing around with her at the bar while I walked out carrying a cup of tea that had gone cold.

I typed. My hands were steady.

"Valentine, in ten years, what did you ever give me?"

Send. Block the number.

The bus came. I got on and sat in the last row, by the window.

The rain picked up, streaking down the glass in long, uneven lines.

I watched the city outside. Neon signs bled together into a smear of red and green and yellow, all of it running, running downward.

My phone was quiet.

I looked down and saw the post I'd just shared. A few people had liked it.

I tapped. A coworker. A college classmate. A couple of casual friends.

Not Valentine.

He never showed up on my feed.

But every single thing he posted, I'd liked.

I leaned against the window and closed my eyes.

One thought kept circling through my head.

He'd said she was just like a sister.

But in ten years, he had never once called me his girlfriend.

The rain came down harder.

The window was covered in water now, and the world outside dissolved into nothing, red and green lights all bleeding downward.

I pressed my forehead against the glass. The cold seeped in, and my temples throbbed.

Another text. Another new number.

"Are you coming back or not?"

I stared at those five words.

No "home." No "us." No "I'll wait for you."

Just are you coming back or not.

Like I'd asked him what he wanted for dinner. Like I'd just stepped out to grab something from the store. Like I was throwing some little tantrum and once the rain stopped, I'd slink back on my own.

I typed one word: "No."

Send. Block.

The bus lurched. My stop. I stepped off, and the rain hit me full in the face, drenching. I didn't run. I just walked.