I Was the One They Were Willing to Lose Chapter 10

I Was the One They Were Willing to Lose Chapter 10

The year I turned twenty-six, the deep-space observation project I’d been working on officially announced its findings.

After the press conference, a reporter asked why I’d chosen astrophysics.

I looked at the nebula image behind me and thought back to that storm when I was sixteen.

That day, I’d run up the mountain alone–not out of spite, not out of stubbornness. Just because I’ heard there was going to be a rare meteor shower.

Then the rain got too heavy, and I got stranded at an abandoned overlook.

When the three of them found me, they were soaked through.

Beckett carried me down the mountain. Julian held the umbrella over me. Griffin held my hand and swore, over and over, that from then on they’d always choose me first.

Back then, I treasured that line more than the stars themselves.

Only later did I understand: even stars burn out. Promises change too.

“Because I like looking up at the sky,” I told the reporter, smiling.

“The universe doesn’t erase one star just because someone else seems more fragile.”

After the interview aired, Mom sent me a voice message.

She said they’d renovated the yard and set aside a stargazing room for me. If I ever had time, I could

come see it.

I didn’t reply right away.

The project gave me a long break, and eventually I bought a ticket home.

Not to make peace with anyone.

Just that after all these years, the city didn’t scare me anymore.

Mom picked me up at the airport.

She stood at the exit, didn’t rush to hug me, just asked if I was tired.

On the drive back, we passed the old familiar alley.

Most of the storefronts had changed. The stationery store I used to visit as a kid was a coffee shop

now.

Mom told me Beckett had gotten engaged. Julian was mostly out of town, only came back for the holidays. Griffin had never married.

After she said that last part, she glanced at me carefully.

I looked out the window and didn’t respond.

Whether anyone was waiting or not had stopped being any of my business a long time ago.

Back home, my old room was still in the same place.

The walls had been freshly painted, the bookshelf lined with astronomy books.

A new telescope stood by the window, and the photo album sat on the desk.

I picked it up and flipped through.

They’d added a lot more photos since.

In the pages where I’d once been missing, there were late apologies written on blank print frames.

Beckett wrote that he shouldn’t have mistaken my patience for weakness.

Julian wrote that he’d finally understood what a windowless storage closet really meant.

Griffin had written the least. Just one line:

[The one who gets left behind shouldn’t be the one responsible for forgiving.]

On the last page, tucked in, were five faded Sync Game cards.

The one that was mine had Griffin’s name written on it.

No one had ever asked me, that night, who I’d written down.

Truth is, in that second round, I wasn’t just the one asking the question-I was a player too.

If only four out of five of us could stay, I’d chosen to give up Griffin.

Because right before the party started, I’d seen with my own eyes-he’d put the birthday crown I’d prepared onto Poppy’s head instead.

At the time, I still held out one last bit of hope for him, so I never showed my answer.

Turns out, before they ever gave up on me, I’d already thought about giving up on one of them too.

I just chose, in the end, to leave all three of them in the past together.

I closed the album and put it back on the shelf.

Mom stood in the doorway and asked softly, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast.”

She blinked, then smiled and nodded. “Okay. I’ll go get eggs.”

I used to love her scrambled eggs and toast as a kid.

Later, Poppy said she didn’t like scallions, and the dish stopped having any in it, permanently.

When dinner came out, there were fine flecks of green scallion scattered over the plate.

I ate quietly. Didn’t say it was good. Didn’t say it wasn’t.

The next morning, I took the telescope up to the mountaintop.

Mom didn’t ask to come along, just handed me a jacket before I left.

The overlook that used to trap me had been restored, a railing now running alongside it, a handful of people already gathered to wait for the sunrise.

I set up the equipment and pointed the lens at the brightening sky.

Just before the sun rose, a meteor cut across the horizon. Brief. Bright.

Someone nearby gasped, closed their eyes, made a wish.

I didn’t make one.

Because the freedom, the respect, the wide-open life I used to want-I’d already given all of that to myself, with my own two hands.

My phone buzzed once.

Mom, asking when I’d be back for breakfast.

I replied: [After sunrise.]

After I sent it, I looked up.

The morning light crossed the mountains and settled slowly onto my

face.

For years, I used to think being chosen by everyone was what happiness meant.

It wasn’t until I’d walked roughly 1,700 miles alone that I finally understood.

Real happiness was never about waiting for someone to write my name on a card.

It’s having the courage to walk away from a table that was never really mine-no matter who else they choose to keep.

The mountain wind moved through my collar. I shouldered my equipment and walked on down the

sunlit trail.

This time, no one walked beside me.

But I never felt alone.

THE END