Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ex
Writer's POV - Age 19
Marcos Delgado asked her out in October of her freshman year at state college.
They'd dated briefly in middle school before Evan, before everything. He was safe. Familiar. The kind of boy mothers approved of.
Rosa had been thrilled when Fabiola mentioned him.
"Marcos! I remember him. Nice family. Good boy. Not like..." She stopped herself, but they both knew what she meant. Not like Evan.
Fabiola said yes because she was tired. Tired of waiting for texts that never came. Tired of checking her phone every five minutes. Tired of loving someone who'd disappeared into silence.
Tired of being half of something when the other half had left her behind.
Their first date was dinner at a chain restaurant.
Marcos talked about his engineering classes, his internship prospects, his five-year plan. He was practical. Ambitious. Normal.
Everything Evan wasn't.
He walked her to her dorm afterward and asked if he could kiss her.
Fabiola said yes.
His lips were warm. Soft. Pleasant.
She felt absolutely nothing.
No spark. No electricity. No desperate need to get closer.
Just... nothing.
"Was that okay?" Marcos asked, pulling back with a hopeful smile.
"It was nice," Fabiola lied.
They fell into a relationship by default.
Study dates at the library. Movies on weekends. Dinner with her family, where her mother beamed and Sofia teased and her father nodded approval.
Marcos was attentive. Kind. He texted good morning and good night. Remembered her favorite coffee order. Brought her flowers for no reason.
He did everything right.
And Fabiola felt nothing.
Three months in, they were walking across campus after class when Marcos stopped her.
"Hey," he said, his expression concerned. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you happy? With us, I mean?"
Fabiola forced a smile. "Of course. Why?"
"Because you never smile. Not really." He touched her cheek gently. "I've been trying, taking you nice places, making you laugh but you always look... sad. Like you're somewhere else."
Guilt twisted in her chest. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to.."
"Is it him?" Marcos's voice was quiet. "The Harlow kid? I heard you two were together in high school."
Fabiola's throat tightened. "That was a long time ago."
"Was it serious?"
She wanted to lie. Wanted to say it was just a high school thing, nothing important, nothing that mattered.
But the words wouldn't come.
"Yes," she whispered. "It was serious."
"Do you still love him?"
Yes. "I don't know."
Marcos nodded slowly, like he'd expected that answer. "Does he still love you?"
"I don't think so. He stopped talking to me. Stopped everything. It's like I never existed."
"Then he's an idiot." Marcos took her hand. "Because you're amazing, Fabiola. You're kind and smart and beautiful. And any guy who can't see that doesn't deserve you."
The words were sweet. Perfect. Everything she should want to hear.
But they landed hollow.
Because Marcos didn't understand. Didn't know what it felt like to be consumed by someone. To be needed so desperately you became essential. To be scented and claimed and loved with an intensity that bordered on madness.
Marcos's love was gentle. Safe. Healthy.
Evan's love had been fire.
And Fabiola was realizing, slowly and painfully, that gentle couldn't satisfy someone who'd been burned alive.
That night, lying in bed, Marcos asleep beside her, Fabiola stared at the ceiling.
She'd thought time would heal her. That distance from Evan would make her feel whole again.
But a year had passed, and she still felt like half a person.
She still woke up reaching for cold that wasn't there.
Still caught herself turning to share something with someone who'd vanished.
Still felt the phantom pressure of lips on her neck, breathing deep, scenting her like she was oxygen.
You smell like life.
Marcos had never scented her. Had never needed to breathe her in to feel grounded. Had never held her so tight she couldn't breathe because he was terrified she'd disappear.
And she missed it.
God help her, she missed it.
Missed being needed that desperately.
Missed being essential instead of optional.
Missed the intensity, the obsession, the consuming nature of Evan's love even though she knew it was unhealthy. Knew it was probably toxic.
Knew her mother would say she was broken for wanting it.
But she did want it.
Craved it.
And dating Marcos only made the absence more obvious.
A week later, Marcos asked her again.
"Why don't you smile anymore? You used to smile all the time. I remember from middle school you were always laughing."
Fabiola looked at him sweet, kind, safe Marcos and told him the truth.
"I forgot how."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." She struggled for words. "I mean I used to know how to be happy. How to be light. But I fell in love with someone who needed darkness. And I lived in that darkness with him for so long that when he left, he took all my light with him." Her voice cracked. "And I don't know how to get it back."
Marcos stared at her, and she saw the moment he understood.
He was never going to be enough.
Because she'd given all of herself to someone else.
And Evan Harlow even absent, even silent, even gone still owned her completely.
"I'm sorry," Fabiola whispered.
"Me too," Marcos said quietly.
They broke up that night.
Amicably. Gently.
Fabiola cried anyway.
Not because she loved Marcos.
But because she'd tried so hard to move on.
And failed spectacularly.
Alone in her dorm, Fabiola pulled out her phone.
Scrolled to Evan's contact.
Fifty-three unread messages. All from her. All unanswered.
She started typing: I still love you.
Stared at it.
Deleted it.
Typed: I miss you.
Deleted it.
Typed: Come back.
Deleted it.
Finally, she just wrote: I forgot how to smile.
She stared at the message for five minutes.
Then hit send.
Knowing he probably wouldn't respond.
Knowing she was pathetic for still trying.
Knowing she should move on, should let go, should find someone who actually wanted her.
But unable to stop hoping.
That maybe, somewhere across the country, Evan Harlow still needed her too.
Even if he'd never admit it.
Even if he'd let her go.
Even if she was drowning alone now.
At least she'd drowned for something real.
I forgot how to smile.
The message sat there. Delivered. Read.
No response.
Fabiola turned off her phone and cried herself to sleep.
And didn't know that across the country, Evan stared at those four words until his vision blurred.
And typed back: Me too.
Then deleted it before sending.
Because some promises were meant to be broken.
And some people were meant to destroy each other.
Even when they loved each other most.