"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.

I walked past the barbecue place we always used to go to. The owner was closing up for the night. She spotted me and paused. "Hey, sweetie, all by yourself tonight? Where's that man of yours?"

I gave her a smile and kept walking.

A little further down, I passed the bus stop. Once, after a fight, I'd jumped out of the car and bolted. He chased me down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into his chest. I struggled twice but couldn't break free. He told me to knock it off, said we'd talk about it at home. I said I wasn't going home. So he threw me over his shoulder.

I kicked him. He smacked my butt and said if I kicked him again, he'd toss me in the dumpster.

The people waiting at the stop all laughed.

I laughed too. And somewhere in the laughing, I stopped being angry.

I was twenty-four then. He was twenty-six.

I thought that was forever.

Now I looked up at the same bus stop. Empty. Rain had soaked the bench through. A flyer on the ad board was waterlogged, its edges peeling, drooping down like something giving up.

I stood there for a while. Drenched to the bone. Hair plastered to my face. Water running down my neck and pooling inside my collar.

Then I kept walking.

At the apartment gate, Old Mr. Barrow leaned out of the guard booth. "Oh, honey, look at you! You're soaked through. Come in and dry off!"

I waved him off, swiped my card, and went in.

I was alone in the elevator. The mirror showed me a wreck of a person. Hair hanging in wet clumps. Eye makeup smeared into two dark streaks down my face. Clothes clinging to my body like I'd just been fished out of a river.

I stared at the woman in the mirror.

Who was she?

I'd followed her for ten years, and suddenly I didn't recognize her.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped out, fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door.

The apartment was dark.

I didn't turn on the lights. Just stood in the entryway, breathing in the familiar scent. The lemongrass diffuser I'd bought. He said it smelled like dish soap. I told him he didn't know the first thing about anything.

His car keys were still sitting on the entryway console. He'd taken my car to the bar tonight, said his had an odd plate number and couldn't be on the road.

His shoes were on the rack. Sneakers tossed at lazy angles, sprawled next to my boots, which were lined up perfectly.

In the living room, the instant noodle cup from last night was still sitting on the coffee table. He hadn't thrown it away.

His jacket was draped over the couch, tossed there when he left that morning. I hadn't folded it. Just left it where it landed.

I walked into the bedroom. My side of the bed was neat. His side was a tangle of blankets balled up, pillow knocked sideways.

The closet door hung open. He'd torn through it looking for clothes that morning, and my T-shirts had been shoved to one side, wrinkled into a ball.

I stood in the middle of the bedroom, dripping water onto the floor.

Then I walked to the closet, pulled open his side, and started yanking his clothes out one by one. Throwing them on the ground.

Dress shirts. T-shirts. Hoodies. Jeans. The coat I'd bought him. The scarf I'd knitted. Two months I'd spent on that scarf, pricked my fingers more times than I could count. He never wore it. Not once. Said it was ugly.

All of it, on the floor.

Then I crouched down, picked up the coat, and held it against my chest.

It still smelled like him. Aftershave. Cigarettes. A faint trace of liquor.

I buried my face in it and breathed in deep.

Then I let go and threw it back on the pile.

I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

Hot water poured over me, and my body finally stopped shaking. I stood under the stream with my eyes closed, mind blank. Not thinking about anything.

I didn't know how long I stayed like that. When I finally stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over. I reached up and wiped a streak through the condensation, and my face appeared.

White. Eyes swollen. Lips drained of color.

I stared at that face for a long time.

Then I walked out and picked up my phone.

A flood of unread messages.

From a coworker: "Girl, what happened?? What's that flower on your social media about?"