Souls don't meet by accident - Will Smith

BRIAR

The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, the silence felt louder than anything Will had said.

I sat on the edge of my bed, still in the same hoodie, still gripping the cuff like it might keep me grounded. My phone buzzed once—James.

you left the lights on in the hallway. also i think that movie finally broke me.

I stared at the screen, torn between two worlds. Between someone who knew every version of me and someone who was just starting to ask the right questions. Between a memory and a maybe.

The lights. I stood up, flicked the switch off. Darkness fell over the room like a blanket I wasn't sure I wanted.

I didn't text James back.

Not yet.

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WILL – airport

He didn't cry. Didn't speak. Just sat at the gate, staring down at the floor like it might give him answers he couldn't ask for.

He didn't expect her to open the door. Didn't expect her voice to shake. But he had hoped—selfishly, maybe—that something in her would still ache the way he did.

But she hadn't fallen into his arms. She hadn't cried.

She'd stood her ground.

And that hurt more than if she'd slammed the door.

Will closed his eyes.

Maybe she was never meant to be the girl he came back to. Maybe she was the girl who taught him what leaving cost.

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BRIAR

"You okay?"

I looked up. Sydney was standing in the doorway, a brown bag of Thai food in one hand and a look that said she already knew the answer.

"I don't know," I said honestly.

She handed me a container of pad thai, sat beside me, and didn't push.

That was the thing about Sydney—she never asked for more than I could give. Just sat with me, in silence or in mess, and let me figure it out.

"I saw him," I finally said.

"Will?"

I nodded.

"Do you still love him?" she asked.

I paused. "I don't think love ever really goes away."

She took a bite of noodles, chewed slowly. "But does it still fit?"

I didn't answer.

Because I wasn't sure.
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JAMES

Two days passed before I saw her again.

Not because I didn't want to. But because I knew—something had shifted that night. The light in her eyes had dimmed, and no amount of clever texts or coffee orders would fix it.

So I gave her space.

Even if it killed me.

But then, Thursday morning, she slid into the seat next to me in the library, dropped a muffin on the table, and said, "Blueberry. I remembered."

I looked at her, carefully. "You okay?"

"No," she said. "But I will be."

We didn't talk about Will.

Not then.

But later, as we walked out into the cool spring air, she said, "He came back."

I stopped walking.

She kept going.

"I didn't choose him," she added.

And I knew she wasn't saying it to make me feel better.

She was saying it because it mattered.

Because she was choosing herself.

And maybe—maybe that meant someday, she could choose me too.

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