He Posted Ninety-Nine Sorries And I Posted My Goodbye Chapter 06

He Posted Ninety-Nine Sorries And I Posted My Goodbye Chapter 06

He shut his eyes. His throat moved.

“And after that? When you come back?”

“After that, I’ll find a job. Live my own life. No more following you.”

All his life, I followed.

He went to Northwood, I went to Northwood. He did eight years of med school, I stayed for grad school just to be near him.

Almost twenty years of following. So long I forgot what I even wanted for myself.

Now I was done.

“Sophie.” He opened his eyes, red around the edges. “I don’t think we’re at the point of no return. The stuff you’re saying—I can change.”

“You can’t.” I cut him off. “Ethan, this is how you’ve always been. You got so used to me being around—always in the background, always there—that you never really had to see me. And now that I’m actually leaving, you want to hold on.”

“But that’s not love.”

When I said those words, whatever was left inside me went quiet.

He stood there like all the air had been pulled out of him.

I picked up the bag and pushed it back into his hands.

“Ethan. Let me go.”

He looked at me. So much in his eyes I couldn’t read.

Then he turned and walked out.

…

Departure day. I dragged my suitcase through the airport alone.

At the gate, I pulled out my phone and opened the thread again.

Scrolled down. New comments.

[You’re the girl. He won’t remember half of this.]

[When’s your ex going far away?]

I hesitated. Then typed underneath:

[When I realized she was actually leaving. I tried to get her to stay. But I think this time she really meant it. I’m sorry.”]

Replies came fast.

[Some things you can’t come back from. Hope you’re doing okay.]

[Just keep going. Don’t look back.]

I stared at the screen, smiled a little.

Then powered off and boarded.

…

London was colder than I expected.

Two big suitcases, backpack, standing in the arrivals hall. Then I followed the signs to the Tube.

On the train, I caught myself thinking—the old me would’ve snapped a picture, sent it to Ethan with a “Made it!”

But the current me just bought a ticket, got on, transferred, and arrived in the sway of the carriage.

The first month was the hardest.

Essays due every week, twenty-plus readings for each one.

Nights were worse. Jet lag had me wide awake at two or three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, head full of static.

I’d flip on the lamp and read until sunrise, until sleep finally crept back in.

Slowly, I found a rhythm. Seven a.m. wake-up, library by eight, stay till nine when it closed. Classes, meals, and the rest was reading, writing, research.

The first time my advisor returned a paper, it was bleeding red ink. Every paragraph had problems.

“Your logic is solid,” he said, handing it back. “But this reads like a template. You’re telling me what you think I want to hear, not what you actually think.”

I nodded, went back, rewrote it a dozen times.

Finally, at the bottom, he wrote one word: Good.

I stared at that word for a long time. Then I put my head down on the desk and cried.

For the first time in forever, I was affirmed for something that wasn’t about Ethan.

The day after I arrived in London, my phone lit up with a message from Ethan.

[Did you get there? Is it cold?]