Christopher got the text on a quiet Friday evening.

  Jewel: “Can we talk?”

  Part of him hesitated. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bitter. But he wasn’t the same man who used to drop everything when her name lit up his phone. Still, something inside him said go — not for her, but for closure.

  They met at the old overlook where they used to sit and watch the city lights, trading secrets and dreams like currency.

  Jewel was already there, arms folded against the breeze. She turned when he arrived, eyes soft, guarded.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  He nodded. “What’s up?”

  There was a long silence, the kind that used to be comfortable between them but now just felt heavy.

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  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she started. “And I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything. But I needed to say this — out loud.”

  He waited.

  “I loved you. Maybe I always did. I just didn’t know how to love you the right way back then. I was scared, selfish, unsure. But it was real, Chris. Even if I never said it.”

  Christopher looked out at the skyline, then down at his hands. Quiet.

  She stepped closer. “I still think about you. About us. And I wonder… if there’s any part of you that still—”

  He turned to her. “Jewel…”

  His voice was gentle but firm.

  “I waited years for you to feel this. I gave you everything — my time, my heart, my silence. And when I finally stopped waiting, I found peace. I found her.”

  Jewel’s eyes welled up. “So, there’s no chance?”

  “I think we had our moment,” he said. “But we spent it standing still.”

  She nodded, swallowing heartbreak.

  They sat together for a while, not speaking, just existing — like old times.

  But this time, it was goodbye.