—Alya's Point of View (Extended)
They say home is where the heart is. But what if the heart no longer knows where it belongs?
I watch her from across the room—Gadis, with her laughter lighting up corners no one else seems to reach. Her body leans slightly toward Anya, and there's a soft curl in her lips that I used to believe was only reserved for me. It's a subtle smile, the kind that tells stories without words, the kind I used to chase with my own.
I shouldn't feel this way.
But when I see them, shoulders brushing like it's the most natural thing in the world, something inside me unravels. Not like glass breaking. No—it's quieter than that. It's the hush after someone walks out of a room for the last time. It's the stillness that lingers where words should've been. It's the kind of silence that aches.
I want to be better than this. Kinder. Braver. I want to celebrate her happiness, even if it doesn't have my name in it. But the truth is, I'm not that noble. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I'm selfish.
And jealousy… jealousy is a quiet monster. It doesn't roar; it whispers. It doesn't strike; it seeps in, soft and slow. It tells me things I don't want to hear: That maybe she's happier now. That maybe she no longer turns to look for me when something funny happens. That maybe, in Anya, she's found someone who fits her heart in ways I never could.
I can't compete with that kind of ease. Anya is sunlight—effortless and warm. She draws people in like gravity itself adores her. She speaks in a rhythm that people want to follow, and Gadis—God, Gadis watches her like a girl watching fireflies on a summer night, caught in the wonder of it all.
Still, I stay.
I stay in the echo of our shared memories, tiptoeing through moments we used to call ours. Hoping—stupidly—that some part of her still lingers in them, waiting for me to return. But lately, even her absence feels unfamiliar, like a space I no longer have the right to occupy.
Gadis used to be my compass. With her, the world softened. My anxiety unraveled gently beneath her laughter. She anchored me when life felt too loud, too heavy. She used to reach for my hand like it was second nature. Now, her hands find someone else.
I'm not angry. I could never be. She deserves joy—real, radiant joy. But that doesn't stop the ache in my chest when I remember how it felt to be chosen by her.
I wonder if she notices the way my sentences falter now, or how I flinch slightly when she mentions Anya's name. I wonder if she sees the way I shrink into myself when her eyes follow someone else's smile.
We don't talk about it.
We don't talk about the quiet that's settled between us like dust. We don't talk about how I count the seconds between her messages now. We don't talk about how her laughter feels farther away, even when she's sitting right next to me.
And yet… there are these moments. Small mercies. When her eyes find mine across the room and hold. When she says my name, slow and careful, like it still means something. In those seconds, the world softens again. For a breath, I am home.
But love, I'm learning, is not always mutual.
Sometimes love is a secret we keep even from ourselves.
Sometimes it's a song with only one voice singing.
Sometimes it's waiting at a door that will never open again.
And sometimes… sometimes love is knowing when to stop knocking.
But I'm not ready.
I'm still clinging to the frame of that door, fingers white-knuckled with all the things I can't say. She doesn't shut it hard—Gadis would never be cruel. She leaves gently. And gentle departures are the ones that linger. They echo.
If she had walked away in anger, I could hate her. I could heal. But she walks away in kindness. In understanding. And that's the kind of leaving that stays with you.
I start noticing the details more than ever. The curve of her fingers when she ties her hair. The soft crease in her forehead when she's deep in thought. The way she hums when she's washing dishes. I hold on to those fragments like relics, like maybe they'll keep her with me a little longer.
Anya laughs again, and Gadis joins her. Their joy bounces off the walls like music I'm no longer invited to dance to. I force a smile. I laugh, a beat too late. No one notices. Or maybe they do, but kindness has made them pretend otherwise.
I used to think I was her home.
But I see now—she's moved on. She's laying down rugs in someone else's heart, placing pictures on new walls. And maybe that's what people do. Maybe we all keep building, keep leaving behind the places that once held us.
Still, it stings—to become a place someone used to love. To realize you're a memory in the making.
Not everyone gets to be someone's forever.
Not everyone gets to be the place they return to.
Some of us are only meant to be temporary shelters—moments of safety before the journey continues.
And maybe… maybe that's all I ever was to her.
But tonight, I allow myself to grieve.
I let myself feel every fragment of the loss. I don't push it down. I don't pretend. I cry into my pillow, into the folds of my solitude, where no one can see the way I break. I whisper her name like a prayer, like a goodbye I'm too afraid to say out loud.
And in the quiet, I admit the truth I've buried beneath smiles and silences:
I loved you.
I still do.
And maybe… maybe I always will.
Even if you're no longer mine.
Even if I was never really yours.
Even if I was just a resting place—somewhere safe before you found your way to someone else.
Because not everyone gets to be home.
Some of us are just the roads that lead there.
And in the end, maybe that was enough.