Chasing the stars together

Jennifer had stopped trying to count the days.

At first, she had. She had marked them in her head, in her heart. The number of mornings she had woken up alone. The number of nights she had stared at her phone, wanting to call, wanting to hear his voice—before reminding herself that he wasn't hers to call anymore.

She had counted the months, convinced that time would make it easier. That eventually, the ache in her chest would fade. That she would stop feeling like something inside her had been ripped out.

But time didn't heal wounds. It only made people better at pretending.

And Jennifer had become really good at pretending.

She laughed when she was supposed to. She nodded when people talked about moving on, about love being just another thing you get over.

She even convinced herself, for brief moments, that she was fine.

But then the smallest things would ruin her.

A song playing in a café. A scent in the air. The sight of someone reaching for another's hand, effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she would remember him.

Remember the way he had looked at her like she was his whole world. The way he had whispered promises in the quiet of midnight—promises that turned to lies in the daylight.

The way he had left.

And no matter how much she tried to bury it, no matter how much she told herself she didn't care anymore—

She still felt the ghost of him in every place she went.

And she hated that she wasn't strong enough to forget.

Jennifer didn't cry over him anymore.

Not really.

She didn't sit in bed at night, staring at the ceiling with tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She didn't scroll through old messages or wonder what if.

But the hurt—the absence—was still there.

Some nights, she still reached for her phone before stopping herself.

Some mornings, she still woke up expecting to feel warmth beside her, only to be met with cold sheets and the distant hum of the city outside her window.

And somewhere deep down, she still felt like she was waiting.

Waiting for the ache to dull.

Waiting to stop feeling like she had lost something she would never get back.

Waiting to be herself again.

But she wasn't sure she even remembered who that girl was anymore.

ONE DAY

The bookshop was quiet that evening.

Jennifer had started going there more often, even when she didn't need a book. Maybe because it was calm, or maybe because being around stories made it easier to forget her own.

Aiden was at the counter, flipping through a book absentmindedly. He always looked comfortable there, like he belonged among the shelves and the scent of old paper.

Jennifer didn't understand why he was so easy to be around.

Maybe because he never pried. Never asked the kind of questions that made her throat tighten.

Or maybe because something about him felt safe.

She leaned against the counter, exhaling.

"You ever just... feel tired?" she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Aiden glanced up. "All the time."

Jennifer let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Not that kind of tired. I mean the kind where you wake up and still feel like you haven't rested."

Aiden's expression didn't change. He just watched her, his gaze steady in a way that made her feel seen.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I know that kind."

Jennifer didn't know why that made her chest ache.

She didn't say anything else. She just looked down at the book in her hands, letting the silence stretch between them.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn't feel lonely.

Aiden didn't say anything else.

He wanted to.

He wanted to tell her that he saw it—that exhaustion she carried like a second skin. That he recognized the weight of it because he had known it himself.

But Jennifer wasn't asking for answers.

She was just trying to breathe.

So instead, Aiden reached behind the counter and pulled out a book.

A worn, well-loved copy of something he had read years ago.

He set it down in front of her, his fingers brushing against the cover. "You might like this one."

Jennifer looked at him, then at the book. "What's it about?"

Aiden hesitated. "Someone trying to find their way back to themselves."

She didn't ask if he meant her.

She just took it, turning it over in her hands like she was trying to understand why he had chosen this one—why him giving it to her felt like something more than just a book recommendation.

And then, after a pause, she said, "Thanks."

Aiden nodded, his throat tight.

Because she didn't realize it, but this was the first time she had let him in.

Even if only a little.

Later that night, Jennifer sat in bed, the book resting against her lap.

She hadn't planned on reading it.

But something about the way Aiden had given it to her—the way he had looked at her like he knew—made her open it anyway.

And when she read the first page, her chest ached.

Because somehow, it felt like it had been written just for her.

And she didn't know how he had known that.

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