“Already Gone”—Sleeping At Last
“Fire on Fire”—Sam Smith
“Surround Me”—Leon
“Breathe”—Anna Nalick
“Holding on and Letting Go”—Ross Copperman
“Scared to be Lonely”—Martin Garrix
“Fire Meet Gasoline”—Sia
“Broken”—Lifehouse
“Sparks Fly”—Taylor Swift
“Wrecking Ball”—Miley Cyrus
“Can I Be Him”—James Arthur
This Year’s Love—David Gray
“Certain Things”—James Arthur
For the full playlist on Spotify
There’s no sound louder than a heart breaking, yet it’s the most silent sound of all.
There’s no sound more disturbing than that of broken pieces rattling inside the cage that once kept the heart safe as they try to piece themselves back together.
I’m not sure if I’m numb or in pain, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if there’s a difference.
I focus my attention in front of me, navigating the icy roads, fighting the urge to look back on the wreckage I left behind.
I won’t look back.
I won’t look back.
I won’t look back.
My gaze flicks up to the rearview mirror as if pulled by a magnet. The boy I love—the boy I left behind—is watching me drive away. I blink, and the image gets fuzzy as more tears fill my eyes. I blink again, and the image moves farther and farther away. Sometimes letting go means choosing not to look back.
I face the street in front of me again, my grip on the wheel tightening as my gaze searches for an exit. I want to turn the car around and take back my words. Take him back and tell him what I said was a mistake.
Was it, though? A mistake? I didn’t just decide to suddenly end things with Sol. I’d had time to think about it. After our last meeting, we parted, and I was elated as always, but by the time I got home, I felt exhausted. As much as I love Sol, meeting in secret has been chipping away at my walls. As much as his love makes me feel like nothing could ever touch me, I want more.
The same feeling washes over me now, and my foot presses harder on the gas. The car jerks forward, moving faster and causing the tires to skid on the ice. I bite down on my bottom lip, slowly easing off the gas pedal as I try to bring my Fiat under control. I take deep breaths, and my heartbeat evens out.
Avoiding the rearview mirror, I focus on the approaching intersection as the light turns yellow, signaling a change.
I slow down behind a white Toyota, then glance in the side-view mirror just to make sure I’m safe to idle. I do a double take when I catch a glimpse of a red truck one car behind me.
Dammit, Sol. Why is he following me?
Ugh. My heart speeds up and I hate it. Hate the hope thrashing through me.
I swing my gaze back to the road, making sure no cars are approaching from the opposite direction before overtaking the Toyota just as the light changes to red. In a reckless move, I zoom through the intersection, my palms sweaty on the wheel and my teeth biting down on my lip until I taste blood on my tongue.
My gaze is trained on Grace’s car as my truck inches slowly forward. Five minutes ago, I watched her drive away, taking my heart with her. Three minutes into my drive in the other direction, I turned around and drove back. It took me a while to catch up with her.
I shouldn’t be following her, but I can’t let her leave without listening to what I have to say. On top of that, I’m worried about her driving in her current condition. What if something happens to her?
We’re approaching the intersection. The light is yellow now, and she’s slowing down behind a white vehicle. Abruptly, as if changing her mind, Grace overtakes the car and runs the red light. My heart literally stops beating for a few seconds before jump-starting to a wild sprint at her recklessness.
I never curse, or rather, I try my best not to. But right now, different choice words flash inside my head as fear chokes me, making it hard to breathe.
I mutter, “Goddammit, Grace.”
My ringing phone interrupts my thoughts. I glance down and see “Grace” flashing on the screen. Anger ignites inside my chest, chasing away the worry. I can’t decide what makes me angrier: the reckless move or her calling me while driving.
My fingers tremble as I answer the call, and growl, “What the heck was that, Grace? Why did you do that? God! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
At the same time, she asks, “Why are you following me?”
She doesn’t answer me, and I don’t answer her. She sniffs, then exhales shakily.
“Look, can you pull off at the next exit so we can talk, please?”
“I—I can’t, Sol. There’s nothing left to say. I can’t think clearly when I’m around you,” she says. “I allowed you to be my priority, which was a big mistake, but like an idiot, I hoped things would change. I want someone who’ll choose me as their first option. The only option.” Her voice grows stronger. “So, no, I don’t want to talk. Go back to the seminary and just let this go.”
I open my mouth to tell her she’s my priority too, but instead, what comes out is a measly, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“You have to,” she insists.
This is getting me nowhere. We’re both hurting. Why isn’t she listening to me? I need to find another way to make her listen to me.
Swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in my throat, I say, “At least let me make sure you get home safely.”
She’s quiet, my words most likely giving her a few seconds to think. “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.” She sniffs, then adds in a softer voice, “You need to go back. Following me won’t change a thing, and it might get you suspended if you miss your curfew.”
“I don’t c—”
“Sol!” she yells, cutting me off. “I want you to go back. If you love me, you’ll do this for me.”
I drag my fingers through my hair in frustration, not wanting to make things worse than they already are. “Okay. I’ll stop following you. Text me when you get home?”
“Sol—”
“Please, Grace. Please. I know I don’t have the right to ask you this, but I’m begging you. I need to know you got home safely.”
She doesn’t say anything for almost a full minute. I’m about to beg her until she relents when she whispers, “Okay.”
I exhale, relieved. “Thank you.”
Silence falls between us on the line, a silence heavy with heartbreak and lost love.
“Goodbye, Sol,” she finally says.
“This is not goodbye, Grace.”
“Just stop, okay? Go be a priest or whatever. That’s what you really want, right? That’s what you chose.”
“That was before—”
“Goodbye, Solomon Callan.”
The line goes dead. The silence is deafening, and the space in my truck feels like it’s closing in on me. I can’t breathe. My vision blurs, and I blink several times to get my bearings. After making sure it’s safe for me to pull onto the shoulder of the road and cut off the engine, I roll down the window and gulp in the cold air.