Chapter 1: The Message That Shattered Everything

My ex-boyfriend died, but I just can't bring myself to feel happy about it.

It’s a weird thing to admit, isn’t it? Honestly, you’d think after everything—after all the breakups and makeups—I’d feel something sharper, maybe even relief or a twisted sense of triumph. But all I get is this dull, persistent ache. Like there’s a splinter in my chest I can’t dig out. And it just sits there, reminding me every time I breathe.

We broke up four times, got back together three times.

Yeah, I know—four breakups, three reconciliations. We were that on-again, off-again couple everyone rolled their eyes at. Sometimes it felt like we were addicted to the drama, or maybe just too stubborn to let go for good. Each split was messy. Each time we got back together, it was like nothing had changed and everything had changed, all at once.

I remember this one time, he joked, "Maya, you're destined to be stuck with me for life."

He said it with that crooked grin of his, like it was the punchline to some inside joke only the two of us got. We were in his parents’ backyard, the air thick with cut grass and charcoal drifting over from the neighbor’s grill. He tossed the words out so casually, but I could tell he meant it, even if I didn't get why. I laughed, but it stuck with me anyway.

And then what? He left on his own. Just like that.

No fight, no drama, just... gone. Sometimes I wonder if he meant it—if he really thought we’d be stuck together forever, or if he just wanted to make me laugh. Either way, he broke the promise first.

I’ve lived twenty-five years. I’ve known Adam Callahan for exactly twelve of them.

That’s half my life. Half my memories tangled up with his. It’s wild, thinking about how someone can get so woven into your story that you can’t even remember the parts before them. Adam was always there, like background music to every big moment.

Same class in middle school, same class in high school, even the SAT prep classes were together. Seriously, it was like we were glued together.

Teachers got used to it, our friends got used to it. I can still smell the dry erase markers in Mr. Green’s algebra class, Adam doodling in the margins, me rolling my eyes. We’d pass notes, share snacks, argue about who was smarter. Always us, side by side.

He knew all my friends, and all his friends were mine too.

Our circles overlapped so much it was almost claustrophobic. There was no escaping him, even if I wanted to. Friday night pizza at Tony’s, Saturday movie marathons at Tyler’s place—Adam was always there, cracking jokes, making everyone laugh. Sometimes I resented how easy it was for him to fit in everywhere.

So when something happened to Adam, his best friend was the first to message me. I remember that moment—my stomach dropped, my mind blank.

"Maya, something happened to Adam."

"Are you coming back?"

I stared at my phone, the words blurring on the screen. I could hear the city outside my Denver apartment—a siren wailing somewhere, the hum of traffic, the soft whir of my laptop’s fan. It all felt so far away. Tyler’s message felt like it had been sent from another planet.

When I saw the message, I had just pulled an all-nighter. I was in Denver, a thousand miles from home.

My eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets and emails. I’d been living on coffee and vending machine snacks, trying to finish a project before sunrise. The exhaustion made everything feel unreal, like I was floating outside my own body.

Those few words hit me hard. My mind went blank, and I slowly closed my laptop.

It was like someone pressed pause on the world. The whirring of my laptop faded, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. I just sat there, staring at nothing, until sunlight started to creep through the blinds.

A few seconds later, I opened the airline app and bought the earliest flight back to Maple Heights.

Didn’t even think about it. My fingers moved on autopilot, booking the ticket before my brain caught up. Denver to Maple Heights, first flight out. I didn’t pack much—just enough to get by. My hands shook as I zipped up my suitcase.

Go back, say goodbye. That’s what you do, right?

It felt surreal, like I was playing a part in someone else’s story. The girl who flies home for a funeral, who tries to say goodbye to a ghost. I kept thinking, This can’t be happening. Not Adam.

After all, Adam once said, if he went before me, I had to pick a good photo of him for his memorial.

I remembered that conversation, half-laughing, half-serious. We were in his car, parked outside Dairy Queen, eating Blizzards. He said, “If I die first, you better not pick one of those photos where I look like a dork.” I promised I’d find the best one. It was a joke, but now it felt like a dare.

Although his friend didn’t say what happened, what if?

My mind raced through possibilities—accident, illness, something worse. I didn’t want to believe any of it. But I had to be ready. I had to be the one who picked the right photo, who showed up, who did the things that needed to be done.

I still had to check his memorial photo.

It was such a small thing, but suddenly it felt huge. Like if I could just find the right picture, maybe I could make this all make sense. Maybe I could give him the send-off he deserved.

Just as I arrived at the airport, another message came in.

"They couldn't save him. He's gone."

I read the words over and over, hoping I’d misunderstood. My hands went numb, and for a second I thought I might faint. The world seemed to tilt sideways.

It's over.

A prophecy fulfilled.

I stood there in the security line, surrounded by strangers, clutching my phone like a lifeline. People shuffled past me, dragging suitcases, sipping coffee, talking quietly. None of them knew my world had just shattered.

I pulled my suitcase, standing at the security checkpoint, at a loss.

My feet felt glued to the floor. I watched the TSA agents scan boarding passes, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Everything looked normal, but nothing felt normal. I wondered if anyone could tell I was barely holding it together.

The airport in the early morning was hauntingly quiet. At this in-between hour, there were hardly any people.

The silence pressed in on me. Every sound seemed magnified—the squeak of wheels on tile, the distant rumble of a plane taking off. I felt like I was underwater, moving through molasses.

Only the announcements echoed in the empty hall.

“Flight 217 to Dallas now boarding at Gate C7.” The voice was flat, mechanical. It didn’t care about my grief. It didn’t care about Adam.

A few words, like a bomb in my heart, left my mind blank.

I kept replaying Tyler’s messages in my head, over and over, until the words lost all meaning. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was stand there, numb.

Dead?

The word felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I whispered it under my breath, testing it out. Dead. Adam is dead. It didn’t sound real.

For a moment, I couldn't tell what I was feeling—just that I felt cold all over.

A shiver ran through me, even though the airport was warm. My hands trembled as I reached for my boarding pass. I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I could disappear.