Hermoiny and the Mirror of Desire

New beginning. CHAPTER 2

I woke up expecting the ache. The phantom weight of him in my chest, the instinct to check my phone for a good morning text that was never mine to receive.

But there was nothing. Just sunlight cutting through my blinds and the sound of Santa Rosa traffic outside. Real. Ordinary. Mine.

My phone lit up. Not him.

Martini: _Hey. I hope last night wasn’t weird. You’re important to him — to us. Coffee soon? My treat

I stared at it Us. There it was again. The verbal rope tying me into their story so I wouldn’t float away and make them feel guilty.

Old me would’ve said yes. Old me would’ve shown up, smiled, asked about their wedding colors, and died a little more inside.

New me typed: Can’t. Busy rebuilding a city

Then deleted it. Then typed: Raincheck. Taking some time for me.

Then sent it. No explanation. No apology. No emoji to soften the blow.

Freedom tastes a lot like silence.

I spent the morning tearing pages out of my journal. Not the ones about him those stayed. Evidence. Proof I survived. I tore out the blank ones. The ones I’d saved “for when he finally sees me.”

He wouldn’t. And that was fine. I needed those pages now.

By noon, I did something reckless. I texted her Not Martini.

*Me:* You still cut hair on Sundays?

*Eli:* For you? Always. Bring wine. And gossip

Eli wasn’t a friend. Eli was a weapon. My old roommate. The girl who once told me, “You don’t love him. You love the idea of being chosen by someone who can’t choose.” She was right. And I hated her for it. Which is why I hadn’t spoken to her in 8 months — since I chose him over her warning.

Her salon was the same: black walls, neon signs, and the smell of bleach and bad decisions. She didn’t say “I told you so.” She just pointed at the chair.

“Talk or chop?”

“Both.”

She spun me around. “You look like a bridge that just realized it’s tired of being walked on.”

I laughed. Real this time. Not the hollow kind from last night. “Something like that.”

“Good. Bridges look better as rubble anyway. You tear them down, you get a view.”

Snip.

Inch by inch, 2 years of “maybe he’ll like it long” fell to the floor.

“His name still in your mouth?”

“No,” I said. “Just his taste. Bitter. Like Martini.”

Eli cackled. “Then we’re naming this cut ‘The Divorce.’”

When she spun me back, I didn’t recognize myself. Short. Sharp. The kind of hair that doesn’t wait to be touched. The kind that cuts back.

Eli handed me a mirror. “Meet the city.”

And god, she was right.

I left her shop ₱2000 poorer and 10 pounds lighter in my soul.

That’s when I saw him.

Not him The other him.

The guy from the bookstore. The one who always shelved my favorite poets face-out when I walked in. The one who once slipped a note into my copy of Milk and Honey

that said: You read like you’re waiting to be written about

He was across the street, coffee in hand, looking at me like I was a plot twist he didn’t see coming.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just lifted his coffee in a quiet salute. I see you.

For the first time, I didn’t look away.

I didn’t cross the street. Not yet.

But I nodded back.

This day. wasn’t about getting over him.

It was about getting under my own skin and deciding to stay there.

And if he — the him from last night

ever came looking for his bridge again?

He’d find a canyon.

With a city on the other side.

And no road back.