Chapter 4: The Weight of Regret

He wore a navy blazer over a white Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up just so. His hair was a little messy, but it suited him. Even his posture screamed confidence.

His expression was cool, his eyes deep. When he spoke, his voice was calm and measured, turning a boring lecture into something captivating.

He made legal jargon sound like poetry. I found myself hanging on every word, even though I barely understood half of it.

Watching him shine on stage, my heart fluttered. I fell for him. Hopelessly.

I tried to play it cool, but I was smitten. I doodled his name in the margins of my notebook, circled it with little hearts. I was that girl.

As expected, I chased him for over half a year, and he avoided me for over half a year.

I left notes in his locker, baked him brownies, found excuses to run into him on campus. He dodged every advance with polite indifference.

I was young, passionate, brave in love, stubborn enough to keep going until I hit a wall.

My friends called me relentless. I called it determination. I thought if I just tried hard enough, he’d notice me.

But I never imagined my persistence would trouble others.

Looking back, I cringe at how pushy I must have seemed. But when you’re nineteen, you think grand gestures are romantic, not annoying.

One day, I blocked Mason's path again, smiling as I offered him brownies I'd made. He looked at me with dark eyes and asked, "You chase after someone who doesn't like you every day, wasting your time and studies. Don't you have anything better to do?"

His words were sharp, but not cruel. He sounded genuinely baffled. Like he couldn’t understand why anyone would bother.

I didn't get it, and replied foolishly, "What I want to do is win you over."

I thought if I just said it out loud, it would make sense. I wanted him to see how much I cared.

I held up my finger, showing the blister from baking, half-joking, half-hurt. "See, it hurts."

I hoped he’d be touched, maybe even a little impressed. But he just looked at me, unmoved.

He glanced indifferently at my finger, then fixed his gaze on my face, frowning slightly. He sighed, his tone cold and troubled: "Nothing you do will move me, Harper. You're just moved by yourself, and your self-pity is a huge burden for me."

His words stung. I felt the tears welling up, but I tried to hold them back. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He saw the tears welling in my eyes, hesitated, but still said, "And I really don't like you."

He could have softened the blow, but he didn’t. Maybe he thought honesty was kinder in the long run.

"You're a good person, but I'll never love a girl with your personality. Do you understand?"

A girl like me.

I sat on a bench by the quad, chin in hand, knowing what he meant. I was ordinary, unremarkable, blending into the crowd, undisciplined, greedy for food and sleep, aimless.

I watched other girls glide by—confident, put-together, going places. I was just... me. Never enough.

He liked girls like Alexis Monroe—the kind of girl everyone admired. Dazzling, independent, with strong opinions. She'd never, like me, chase someone who didn't love her.

Alexis was everything I wasn’t. She was the kind of girl who walked into a room and owned it. I faded into the background.

After that, I vanished from Mason's world.

I stopped texting, stopped baking, stopped lingering in the hallways hoping for a glimpse of him. I tried to move on, but it was harder than I thought.

You have to know when to let go.

It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned sooner. Sometimes, loving someone means knowing when to walk away.

Later, a friend asked, what do you see in Mason? Just his looks?

She rolled her eyes, half-joking, half-concerned. "You could do better, Harper. He treats you like you’re invisible."

He treats you like this—why be so stubborn?

Why? Maybe because one rainy day, I saw him feeding stray cats outside the art building. He stood in the downpour, holding an umbrella, patiently coaxing a filthy kitten. Then he tucked the kitten inside his coat and carried it away.

He looked so gentle, so kind. I watched from the window, heart pounding. For a moment, I believed he could be gentle with me, too.

His profile was so gentle. I watched, dazed. Even though I had an umbrella, it felt like the rain was falling right through me.

I wanted to tell him, I'm a stray cat too—abandoned by my parents, growing up wandering.

I always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. Maybe that’s why I clung to Mason so tightly. I wanted a place to call home.

He was so gentle to that kitten. Would he ever show me that gentleness?

But looking back, all his gentleness was for everyone but me.

He rescued kittens, helped classmates, volunteered at the shelter. But when it came to me, his heart was locked tight.

A week later, Mason returned. I'd lain on the couch for a week.

The apartment was quiet, the air stale. I watched the days pass from my spot on the sofa, waiting for something to change.

Strangely, even though he had a key, he kept knocking, as if someone would come open the door.

He stood outside for a long time, knocking quietly, over and over. Maybe he hoped I’d magically reappear.

When I was alive, whenever he came back from a trip, I'd wait by the door. If his flight was delayed, I'd sit on the stairs and run to hug him when he appeared.

I always wanted to be the first thing he saw when he got home. I thought it would make him happy.

Because I missed him every day we were apart.

I counted down the days, marked them on the calendar, planned special dinners. I wanted him to know he was loved.

He'd peel my hands from his neck, coldly saying, "Stop it."

He never liked public displays of affection. I tried to respect that, but sometimes I just wanted to hold him close.

I always prepared a big dinner, knowing his stomach was weak and he ate poorly on trips.

I’d make chicken soup, homemade bread, his favorite dumplings. I wanted to take care of him, to make him feel at home.

Maybe because no one opened the door, Mrs. O'Connor from next door poked her head out: "Mason, back from your trip? Don't knock, Harper isn't home. I haven't seen her for a week. Did you forget your key? She left a spare with me. Want it?"

Mrs. O’Connor was always looking out for us, always ready with a plate of cookies or a piece of gossip. She meant well.

After a while, I heard Mason's hoarse, low voice, squeezed from deep in his throat. "No need."

His voice was rough, barely audible. He sounded older, worn out.

He opened the door with his own key.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, like he was bracing himself for what he’d find.

Then he stood in the hallway, unmoving.

The air was thick with dust, the sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds. It felt like time had stopped.

He'd left in a hurry for his trip, the curtains drawn, the house dim. The bouquet of spray roses—tiny, clustered pink blooms—on the coffee table had withered. The place was a mess: a half-drunk mug of coffee, moldy apples, half-eaten chips, dust floating in the air.

Everything was just as I’d left it, only sadder. The flowers I bought on a whim were nothing but brittle stems now.

And my ashes, in a small funeral home box, next to the dead roses.

A cardboard box. A handful of dust. That’s all that was left.

When I was alive, the house was never so messy. This was our little home, and I cherished it, always keeping it neat and cozy.

I took pride in making our space warm and inviting. I wanted it to feel like a sanctuary, a place where we could both belong.

God knows how much we wanted a home.

We dreamed about it, talked about paint colors and furniture, imagined a future together. Now, it was just another empty apartment.

He stood there a long time before coming in and opening the curtains. My clothes were still drying on the balcony. He paused—just when I thought he'd throw them out, he took them down and placed them on the sofa, then started cleaning.

He moved slowly, methodically, folding my clothes with trembling hands. He wiped down the counters, swept the floor, trying to bring order to the chaos.

I'd never known a house could be so quiet, as if only breathing remained.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his footsteps. I missed the hum of the washing machine, the clatter of dishes, the laughter we used to share.

After cleaning, he sat on the couch alone, exhausted.

He slumped back, rubbing his eyes. For a moment, he looked so lost, so vulnerable. I almost reached out to comfort him.

I watched him, really looked at him.

His suit hung loose on his frame, his hair unkempt, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

This trip really wore him out. He'd lost weight, his eyes were bloodshot, his beard unshaven.

He looked older, worn down by grief and guilt. It was a side of him I’d never seen before.