If he came back

What my mind makes up when I'm heartbroken and dreaming...

I click the lock button on my keys. Twice. Because I never really trust that one honk means actually locked. I cross the narrow lane that snakes between the rows of carports—those metal awnings that cover each building’s little parade of parked cars. Almost home. My eyes are burning, my shoulder’s throbbing, my hands are cramping. Six-inch colorful heels dangle from one hand, along with everything else I somehow thought I could carry in one trip: my cute green purse, keys, phone, takeout, and backpack. Okay, not sixteen things—but close. After a three-hour volleyball match, putting on heels was at the very bottom of my to-do list. And now, the exhaustion is making two bags and a pair of shoes feel like a full-body workout. But when it comes to the post-match walk-in fit versus comfort… The walk-in fit wins. Every. Single. Time. I’d rather be barefoot anyway.

I have a checklist rolling through my head: double-check the packing list, finish the laundry (because even though it’s in the dryer, it probably didn’t dry all the way—I always have to run it twice; my dryer sucks), shower, eat food, drink water, actually pack everything. I’m sure I’m missing things, and they’ll come to me as I go, but the list—plus the fact that I have to be up at… well, let’s think. I need to be on the team bus by 5:30 a.m., which means I have to leave by 5:15 at the latest. So I should probably get up at 5 a.m.… or just before that.

This train of thought actually brings tears to my eyes. Which, honestly, doesn’t take much in the state I’m in—but still. At this rate, we’re looking at maybe four hours of sleep. If I’m lucky.

It’s currently 11:07 p.m. Our match ran long tonight—but hey, at least we pulled out the win. Yay. I can’t even seem to find the joy in that, which sucks. A win is a win, especially right now. But I just feel… numb. A feeling I’m getting a little too comfortable with lately.

Volleyball has always been part of my life—almost 20 years now, which is wild to even say. It’s been my greatest love story. Ha. (I have to joke, because it hits just a little too deep otherwise.) But lately? It just feels like one more thing that isn’t working.

I think life is harder with expectations. But also… a million times more beautiful. High highs come with low lows. I had so much hope for this season. I believed we had a shot at the top four. I believed that even when we lost, we’d find a way to turn it around.

I shake my head. Why burden myself with thoughts like that right now? It’s out of my control. My priorities right now are this checklist and sleep—and getting up these damn stairs.

I trudge up the uneven stone steps that lead to my apartment building. The stairs look like someone poured gravel and broken rock into a mold and called it a day. Not the softest surface for my sock-covered feet. Eight… nine… ten. I count everything. I don’t know why. I’ve always done it. Got it from my dad.

I round the platform at the turn of the staircase and start again. One… two…

And then my breath catches in my throat as I glance up—toward the top landing. Toward my door. And what’s there in front of it.

He’s just sitting there. Duffle bag at his side—his trusty sidekick. Head leaned back against the rough stucco wall. One long leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, tattooed arms clasped loosely around it. So casual. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Like this is just how he spends his Friday nights. Even though it’s not.

His big brown eyes slide my way, and then his head follows. His eyebrows lift slightly, eyes widening like he can’t believe I actually showed up. Which infuriates me. I live here. This is my apartment. You don’t get to just show up and sit outside my door—and then look surprised to see me! You’re the one who doesn’t fit this picture.

He stands quickly, eyes never leaving mine. I haven’t moved. I’m still frozen on the stairwell landing—halfway up, halfway down. Stuck in the middle. A hundred scenarios race through my head, trying to calculate the best course of action, but my brain won’t compute. It’s too much. Too surreal.

This is the stuff of fantasy. And they never come back. Never.

So yes—I’d hoped. For a million reasons. Because I wanted the satisfaction. I wanted him to come back and say he was sorry so I could finally say, “Fuck off. You walked away. You missed out. You don’t deserve me.” I wanted to see him hurt the way he hurt me. To know it was real for both of us—even if it turned out to be less than I believed. To know he’s thought of me even a fraction of how often I’ve thought of him. To feel wanted.

To get back what I thought I had: someone who saw me, who loved me, who cared. My favorite person to talk to. Maybe… even a chance at the future I’ve been quietly praying for.

I’d imagined this moment so many times, but the truth is—I never actually believed it would happen. And now that it has, the flood of emotions makes it impossible to think clearly, let alone make a decision.

I’m not a runner. I don’t fear conflict or vulnerability—I bulldoze my way through hard situations. But right now, I’ve never felt more unsure about anything. And the man standing in front of me? He’s not someone I trust—not right now—to help me figure this out.

I want to hear him out. He’s clearly here to say something. But I’m not ready.

We break eye contact. I walk the rest of the way up those final ten steps, my face blank. Devoid of emotion—or at least I think it is. Maybe that is the emotion. If you know me well enough, you know I wear everything on my face. I’ve never been good at hiding it. But boy, do I try.

I can tell he’s unsure—waiting, watching, trying to figure out what I’m about to do. I feel his eyes burning into me as I reach the top step. I drop all my things—purse, shoes, takeout, backpack—right beside his duffle bag. Then I lift my hand toward him, keys dangling loosely from the ring between my fingers. Still keeping my distance, I let them fall into his open palm.

His eyebrows pinch together, his mouth parting slightly in confusion.“Silver key,” I say, then turn and take the three steps back toward the stairs.“I just need to grab something from my car.”

I descend as swiftly—but as nonchalantly—as I can. I don’t wait for him to respond.

By the time I reach my car, the tears are already streaming down my face. That’s when I realize: I gave him my car keys. My apartment key is on the same ring. And I didn’t even unlock the door—I just handed it over and walked away.

I stand there, frozen, hand on the driver’s side door handle, eyes closed, trying to slow the tears. I’m hoping he’ll stay inside and just give me a moment. Then I sink down onto the curb next to my car. Hand still gripping the handle, forehead resting on my knees, the other arm wrapped tightly around my legs.

I’m not even trying to process what’s happening. I’m just trying to stop crying long enough to figure out what I’m actually feeling.

Yes, I’m overwhelmed—but that’s nothing new. I know how to handle that. So why now?

I’m surprised he’s here. That’s part of it. But more than anything, I want to know why. And I know I need to talk to him. But I need to be ready—to choose how I enter that conversation.

Am I ready to hear him out?

What if—No.

That’s where I stop myself.

This isn’t a fantasy I can rewrite in my head. This is real. He doesn’t have the script. I can’t control what he’s going to say.

I brace myself for the reality: conversations are unpredictable. All I can do is listen.

But not yet. I can take a few more minutes.

Or apparently… I can’t.

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn the corner of the open stairwell, scanning for me. I’m not easy to spot in the dark—curled up on the curb, mostly hidden by my car and some bushes.

I watch as he walks slowly into the road, head turning from side to side. He’s looking for my car. He knows I reverse into parking spaces—told me once how hot he thought it was when I did that. Then I see the moment he spots it. My car.

He still doesn’t see me—but he starts walking toward it. Toward me. And then, our eyes meet.

He slows… maybe even stumbles a little. There’s no way he can see my face clearly from this distance, but maybe I’m still shiny from the tear tracks.

My hand drops from the door as he lowers himself down beside me.

And the tears start all over.

We’re not touching. But we’re so close.I can feel the tension—his effort to stay in his own space.

From the moment we met, I knew his love language was physical touch. It’s obvious. I know he wants to comfort me. To reach for me. But he doesn’t. He holds back.

And for that, I’m both deeply grateful and quietly heartbroken. Because if he touched me—I’d fold. I’d lean right into him and pretend the last two months never happened. I’d let myself feel the closeness, the rightness, and I’d hold on as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

“I’m sorry,” his voice scrapes out. Low. Hoarse. Real. “I’m... I’m just sorry.”

The tears fall harder now, but there’s clarity in them. That rising heat in my chest finally takes shape—it’s not anger. It’s grief.

Grief for what we were. For what we could’ve been. For what he let go of.

I turn my head toward him, but I don’t speak. I don’t nod. I don’t ask why.

We just sit in silence.

For a second—maybe longer—he looks like he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t.

Instead, the night hums around us. The sound of a faraway car door. The rustle of dry leaves. My quiet breathing trying to steady itself.

And then I whisper, barely audible, “You showing up doesn’t fix it.”

I’m not sure if I said it for him or for me.

He nods. Once. Slow.

And we just sit there—close but not touching, surrounded by everything that was and everything that might never be.