It started off good.
After prom, Amethyst and I texted almost every day. We sent memes, talked about school stuff, and made fun of the weird math teacher who always wore socks with sandals. She even came over once, and we watched a movie in my living room while my little brother kept peeking in and asking, "Is that your girlfriend?" I told him to get lost, but part of me wanted to say yes.
Because for a little while, she kind of was.
We went on two dates. One at the arcade, where I accidentally won her a giant stuffed banana, and one at the diner, where we split a milkshake and I almost spilled ketchup on my jeans.
Both times, I felt like I was floating.
But something was off.
Not bad, not wrong. Just… different.
I noticed it when she didn't text back as fast anymore. Or when she smiled, but not in the way she used to. I noticed it when she laughed at my jokes, but didn't lean in like she used to.
One afternoon after school, she asked if we could talk.
We sat on the bench near the tennis courts, where the wind always smelled like grass and chalk dust. I thought maybe she wanted to plan our next date. Or tell me something cool.
But instead, she said, "Nathan… I think we're better as friends."
I nodded, but I didn't really understand yet.
"I mean, you're great," she went on. "You're sweet and funny and easy to talk to. But I don't think I feel that… spark. Not in the way I thought I might."
I tried to smile, like it was okay. "So no more dates?"
She gave me a soft look. "No more dates. But I still want to talk to you. I still want you in my life. Just… not like that."
I stared down at my shoes. They were dirty from walking across the field. One shoelace was untied.
"Okay," I said, even though it wasn't.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "I'm really sorry."
"I know," I whispered.
She got up and walked toward the parking lot. I stayed sitting there, watching the wind move the flag above the gym, trying not to cry.
---
Weeks passed.
We still talked. Not every day, but sometimes. She'd say hi in the hallway. Sometimes she'd text me a song she liked or ask if I finished my English homework.
I always answered.
Because I couldn't not answer.
Even though we weren't dating anymore. Even though she didn't like me like that. Even though it hurt.
The truth was, I still liked her.
A lot.
Maybe more than I should have.
I told Clarisse one day while we were walking home.
"She doesn't like me like that," I said. "But I can't stop."
Clarisse looked at me sideways. "You don't have to stop. But you *do* have to know it's not going to change."
"I know."
"Do you, though?" she asked. "Because you still light up like a Christmas tree when she texts you."
"I can't help it."
"I know," she said, softer this time. "But it's like holding a sparkler after it burns out. It still looks pretty in your hand. But it won't light again."
I didn't say anything. Just kept walking.
---
Summer came, and school ended.
Amethyst went on vacation with her cousins. She sent me pictures of beaches and sunsets. I sent back emojis and jokes. We talked less, but not because we were mad. Just… because.
Clarisse and I hung out more. She dragged me to the bookstore, made me try new foods, even made me go to a summer writing camp with her.
"Write about her," she said one day.
"I already do," I said.
But I didn't write about the happy parts anymore. I wrote about the bench. The goodbye. The quiet ache that didn't go away.
One night, around 2 a.m., I stared at my ceiling again. Same spot where I laid after prom. Same spot where I felt like the world was new.
Now it just felt quiet.
I grabbed my journal. Wrote one line.
"I still like her. And I'm learning how to like her from far away."
---
The next school year started.
Amethyst joined the art club. I joined the newspaper team. We still said hi in the halls. Still laughed when we ended up in the same group project.
But I stopped waiting for her texts.
Not because I didn't care.
But because I had to.
She sat next to someone else at lunch now. A guy from the debate team. I watched her laugh at his jokes, the way she used to laugh at mine.
And my heart did that thing again—twisting, pulling, falling a little.
But I didn't look away.
I just watched from a distance. Quietly proud of her. Quietly sad.
Clarisse noticed. She always did.
"You okay?" she asked me in English class one day.
"I will be," I said.
"Still writing poems about her?"
"Yeah. But now they're more like… goodbye poems."
She nodded. "That's how you heal."
---
One day in October, I was walking past the art room. The door was open. Amethyst was sitting on the floor, painting a sunset on a big piece of canvas. Music was playing from her phone. Soft, kind music.
She didn't see me.
So I kept walking.
Not because I was angry.
Not because I didn't care.
But because I wanted her to be happy.
Even if it wasn't with me.
---
Sometimes we still talked.
Sometimes she told me about her paintings, or her favorite songs, or a dream she had. I always listened. Always smiled. Always answered.
But I didn't flirt.
I didn't hope.
I just... let her be.
And loved her quietly.
From far away.
---
Spring came.
And something in me changed. Not all at once. Not in a big, magical moment.
Just slowly.
Like a snow pile melting in the sun.
I still liked her.
But I didn't need her to like me back anymore.
I could still care. Still remember. Still wish her the best.
But I could also move forward.
Maybe even find someone else, one day.
Not because she wasn't enough.
But because I was still growing.
Still learning how to be okay.
---
By graduation, we were still friends.
She hugged me after the ceremony. Told me she was proud of me.
And I meant it when I said, "Me too."
I meant it all.
Even the quiet part that whispered, I loved you. I still do. But I'll be okay.
Because sometimes, love doesn't need to be returned to be real.
Sometimes, it's enough just to feel it.
To carry it.
To let it go, gently.
And to keep walking.