Chapter 12
749 Words
Years slipped by the way good years do—quietly, steadily, without fanfare.
Aria was the first to leave. She moved abroad with her boyfriend (now fiancé) shortly after graduation. They settled in a small, rainy city overseas where he had a job offer in tech and she found work in event planning. She sent group photos of cobblestone streets, cozy pubs, and the two of them wrapped in scarves against the cold. Her voice notes were full of laughter and updates: “He still makes terrible tea, but I love him anyway.” They got married in a tiny registry office last spring—small, intimate, just them and two witnesses. She posted one photo: her in a simple white dress, him kissing her forehead. The caption read: “We figured it out.”
Zara married her long-time boyfriend the year after. A quiet ceremony in a garden, fairy lights strung through trees, only family and the closest friends. She moved to another city where he worked as an engineer. She sent pictures of their new apartment—bookshelves overflowing, plants on every windowsill, a framed photo of the four of them on the fridge. Her messages were calm and content: “I wake up happy every day. Who knew marriage could feel this… normal? In the best way.”
Layla and Luna ended up in the same city.
Different neighborhoods. Different apartments. Different jobs.
But close enough that they could meet for coffee in twenty minutes on a good traffic day.
Layla landed a role as a junior music producer at an independent label. She spent her days in a small studio with soundproof walls, mixing tracks, arguing with artists about beats, coming home smelling faintly of coffee and reverb. Her apartment was chaos in the best way—guitars leaning against walls, lyric notebooks everywhere, fairy lights she’d stolen from the old hostel still strung across her living room. She released her first solo track last year. It wasn’t a massive hit, but it got plays, got shares, got comments that made her scream into her pillow with joy. She still called Luna at 2 a.m. when inspiration hit: “Babe, listen to this riff. Is it trash or genius?”
Luna worked at a large consulting firm—Strategy & Operations, junior analyst turned mid-level in three years. She wore blazers she’d learned to like, sat in glass-walled meeting rooms, presented slides to clients who nodded thoughtfully. She was good—really good. Her manager pulled her aside after a big project: “You have instincts. Keep pushing.” She did. Late nights became normal. Early mornings too. She earned enough to afford a one-bedroom apartment with a tiny balcony overlooking the city lights. She hung the old fairy lights there. They glowed softly every evening.
She and Layla saw each other at least twice a week.
Coffee runs. Late dinners. Weekends where they walked the river path and talked about everything and nothing. Layla still teased her about being “too quiet for her own good.” Luna still rolled her eyes and smiled.
Life felt… steady.
Not perfect. Not storybook.
But good.
Most nights Luna came home, kicked off her shoes, stood on the balcony with a cup of tea, and watched the city breathe below her.
Sometimes she thought about him.
Not with pain anymore. Not really.
More like remembering a song she used to love—familiar, distant, no longer playing on repeat.
She didn’t date much. A few coffee dates here and there. Nice men. Safe men. Nothing stuck. She told herself she was fine alone. Most days she believed it.
One evening Layla came over with takeout and a bottle of cheap wine.
They sat on the balcony, fairy lights on, city humming.
Layla looked at her sideways. “You’re happy, right? Like… actually happy?”
Luna thought about it.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think I am.”
Layla raised her glass. “To us. To surviving. To whatever comes next.”
Luna clinked hers. “To whatever comes next.”
They drank.
They laughed.
They talked until the wine was gone and the city lights blurred into stars.
Luna went to bed that night with the balcony door cracked, fairy lights still glowing.
She fell asleep listening to the distant sound of traffic and her own steady breathing.
No ache.
No scar itching.
Just quiet.
She was okay.
More than okay.
She was free.
- Writer
