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?"

A text from a friend: Did you and Valentine get into a fight?

A text from my mom: Sweetie, coming home for dinner next week? I'll make ribs.

I replied to each one.

I'm fine.

We didn't fight.

Yeah, I'll be there Saturday.

When I was done, I opened the photo of that wilting rose and stared at it for a long time.

Then I deleted the post.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number. This time, a call.

I picked up.

"What the hell do you want?" Valentine's voice, raw, like he'd smoked through an entire pack.

I didn't say anything.

"I've been out looking for you for hours. I'm soaked to the bone, you won't pick up, you won't text back. What do you want from me?"

I still didn't say anything.

"Say something."

"Say what?"

He choked on that.

"Tell me what you want." His voice dropped low. "Just tell me. I'll give it to you."

I looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A film of condensation clung to the glass.

"You've always known what I want," I said. "But after ten years, you never gave me any of it."

He went quiet.

"Valentine. Do you love me?"

Silence.

Rain. Breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of a car plowing through standing water.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Just answer the question."

More silence.

Then he said, "I love you."

Quiet. Quick. Like the words had been pried out of him.

I heard those three words and realized I felt nothing.

"Then why didn't you ever say it?" I asked. "Ten years. Why couldn't you say it to me?"

"I... couldn't get the words out."

"What about someone else?"

"What?"

"Rosalie," I said. "Could you get the words out for her?"

He panicked. "What does she have to do with this? I already told you, she's just—"

"Think carefully before you answer." I cut him off. "Valentine, think very carefully. Have you ever told her you loved her?"

He went silent.

"Even if it wasn't love," I said. "That you liked her. That you felt sorry for her. That you wanted to protect her. Did you ever say any of that?"

Rain.

Breathing.

Silence.

"She saved my life when we were kids." His voice came out muffled, sudden. "I was eight. I fell into a river and she jumped in after me. She nearly drowned too."

I closed my eyes.

"So I..." he said. "If something happens to her, I can't just do nothing."

"I know."

"Then why are you—"

"Valentine." I opened my eyes and stared at the fog on the glass. "She saved you when you were eight. I met you when I was twenty-four."

He said nothing.

"She saved your life, and you've carried that debt for twenty years." I said. "I gave you ten years of mine. Did you ever carry that?"

"I did."

"Carried what, exactly?"

He went silent again.

"You remembered that I cooked for you. That I did your laundry. That I kept the apartment clean." I said. "You remembered that I waited for you, no matter how late you came home. You remembered that I never made a scene, never started a fight, never asked you for anything."

"..."

"You remembered that I was easy." I said. "That I was low-maintenance. That I'd always be there, never needing your attention, never needing you to worry, never making you afraid of losing me."

The rain eased.

"But you don't know what my favorite food is," I said. "You don't know when I get off work. You don't know that I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of being alone. You don't know that every time I sat in this apartment waiting for you, waiting past midnight, waiting until I fell asleep, all I'd get was a text saying you weren't coming home."