Stay with me -chapter 3
1483 Words
The morning after the rain smelled like a fresh start.
Aiden woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing beside him — a message from Emma. His heart did that little jump again, the one it always did when her name appeared on the screen.
> Emma: “Good morning, sleepyhead 🌞”
Aiden: “Morning. You sound happy.”
Emma: “Maybe I am. Maybe someone’s texts made me smile last night.”
Aiden smiled at that, brushing a hand through his messy hair as sunlight spilled across his desk. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her laugh — but instead, he typed:
> Aiden: “Wish I was there to see that smile.”
He didn’t expect her to blush at her screen thousands of miles away. But she did. And maybe that’s what love really was — smiling at someone’s words, even when they’re not there to see it.
The days that followed became a quiet rhythm — texts, calls, stolen moments between classes and life. Aiden would send her pictures of sunsets; she’d send voice notes that sounded like soft songs. He’d tell her about the pressure of soccer practice, the coach’s endless drills. She’d talk about painting and how colors sometimes reminded her of people.
> “If you were a color,” she once said, “you’d be somewhere between dusk and morning light — not quite night, not yet day. Just that perfect in-between.”
“That’s oddly specific,” he’d teased.
“That’s because I’ve thought about it,” she said, softly.
And just like that, his world became brighter.
But time, like always, had its own plans.
One night, when Aiden finally texted after a long, exhausting day, Emma didn’t reply. Not for an hour. Not even after two. Her “last seen” time stayed still, frozen.
At first, he told himself she was busy. But as midnight crawled in, the quiet started to ache. He stared at the screen until his reflection blurred into the dark glass.
When her message finally arrived the next morning, it was short.
> Emma: “Sorry, was out with friends.”
That was it. No emojis. No warmth.
He tried to brush it off, but the tone lingered — distant, different.
Over the next few days, her replies grew slower. Her voice notes stopped. Calls turned into texts. Texts turned into silence.
He didn’t want to ask why. He didn’t want to sound clingy. But every time he opened the chat, his fingers hovered over the keyboard. What changed?
And then one night, she finally texted:
> Emma: “Aiden… can I tell you something?”
Aiden: “Of course. Always.”
It took five minutes before the typing bubble appeared again.
> Emma: “There’s this guy in my class. He’s nice. We’re working on a project together.”
Aiden stared at the message. His chest tightened, though he didn’t know why. He had no right to be jealous. They weren’t together. But somehow, it felt like losing something that wasn’t even his to begin with.
> Aiden: “That’s… cool. You like him?”
Emma: “No! It’s not like that. I just thought I should tell you.”
Aiden: “You don’t have to explain.”
Emma: “I want to.”
She paused. Then another message followed:
> Emma: “You matter to me. That’s why.”
It should’ve made him feel better. But instead, he felt something inside him twist — that strange mix of comfort and fear that comes when love starts to feel real, and fragile.
Later that night, as he lay in bed, her last words kept echoing in his mind.
You matter to me.
He smiled in the dark, even though his chest ached.
A week later, he received a small package at his doorstep. Inside, a postcard — a painting of a night sky scattered with stars, and beneath it, in her handwriting:
> “The sky still looks the same from here. Miss you. — E.”
He traced his thumb across the ink, imagining her hand brushing against the same spot while writing it. He pinned it to his wall right above his desk. It wasn’t much, but it felt like she’d sent him a piece of herself.
That night, he texted her one line.
> Aiden: “Stay with me, okay?”
No reply came for hours. But when it finally did, it was just three words —
> Emma: “Always. I promise.”
And yet, as he stared at that promise glowing on his screen, something deep inside him whispered — that maybe promises, like stars, shine brightest just before they fade.
Days turned into weeks.
The rhythm they once shared — the constant good mornings, the voice notes, the late-night laughter — began to fade.
It wasn’t sudden; it was slow, like watching a candle burn out, inch by inch, until the room is dark and you don’t remember when it stopped glowing.
Aiden still texted her every night. Sometimes she replied, sometimes she didn’t. And when she did, the warmth in her words had cooled. It was like she was there, but behind a wall he couldn’t see through anymore.
He tried to tell himself it was normal — people get busy, life changes. But every time he stared at the empty chat, he felt something slipping away.
Her absence had a sound now — a soft, hollow echo in his chest.
One night, unable to take it anymore, he typed:
> Aiden: “Did I do something wrong?”
The message stayed on “delivered.” For hours.
Then “seen.”
But no reply.
He waited. For a day. Then two.
Still nothing.
His friends noticed he’d stopped smiling as much. The field didn’t feel the same; even the music in his headphones sounded emptier.
Then, on the third night, his phone buzzed. Her name. His heart jumped — like it always did.
He opened it instantly.
> Emma: “Hey… I’m sorry. I just needed some space.”
He read it again and again, trying to understand. Space. The word sounded harmless, but it cut deep — deeper than she probably meant.
> Aiden: “Are you okay?”
Emma: “I don’t know. Everything feels heavy lately.”
Aiden: “Talk to me.”
Emma: “That’s the thing, Aiden… I don’t even know what to say anymore.”
He stared at the screen, his eyes stinging.
How do you fight silence when it’s coming from the person who used to be your favorite sound?
> Aiden: “I miss us.”
Emma: “I do too.”
Aiden: “Then why are we pretending we don’t?”
Emma: “Because sometimes… love isn’t enough.”
He froze. The words didn’t make sense.
Not enough? How could it not be enough when it was everything?
> Aiden: “Don’t say that. Please.”
Emma: “You don’t understand, Aiden. I feel lost. And I can’t drag you into my storm.”
Aiden: “Then let me be your shelter.”
There was a long pause — the kind that feels like the world’s holding its breath.
Then her reply came.
> Emma: “You already are. That’s why it hurts so much.”
He felt something break inside him. Quietly. Completely.
He called her, but she didn’t pick up. He called again. Still nothing.
The third time, it went straight to voicemail.
He left a message anyway — his voice trembling.
“Emma… I don’t know what’s happening. But please, don’t fade away like this. You said you’d stay. Just… stay with me. Even if it’s hard. Please.”
There was no answer that night. No sound. Only rain outside — again.
He sat by his window, staring at the same stars they once talked about, the same moon they once promised to share.
In another city, Emma sat on her bed, phone clutched in her hand, tears staining her pillow. She wanted to call him back. God, she wanted to.
But she couldn’t.
Because the doctor’s words kept replaying in her head — “We need to start treatment soon.”
She looked at his missed calls. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
And with shaking fingers, she typed one last message.
> Emma: “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my favorite chapter.”
Aiden read it minutes later — eyes wide, heart pounding.
He typed back instantly.
> Aiden: “What do you mean ‘no matter what happens’? Emma? What’s going on?”
But she was already offline.
He stared at the screen, waiting, praying, anything.
And for the first time, he realized —
some promises don’t fade.
They haunt.
Outside, the rain began again — soft, endless, and cruelly familiar.
- Writer
