Chapter 3 — Shadows of the Past

Jamie

The text sat in my drafts folder, the blinking cursor beneath it like a pulse I couldn’t quiet. I’d written and rewritten the apology so many times it no longer felt like mine—lines borrowed from poets, fragments of half-forgotten songs, echoes of words I’d once whispered to Alex. It was the amalgamation of a thousand regrets pressed into a few sentences. And now, it was out there, sent to the wrong person. Sent to Clara.

Clara.

Her name had become a quiet rhythm in my thoughts, a steady undercurrent I didn’t fully understand. I never expected her reply—not just her reply, but the way her words had lingered, soft and steady, like the glow of a streetlamp on a cold night. And here I was again, sitting on the fraying couch of my apartment, staring at her latest message: *“Your words remind me of the way light filters through leaves. Unexpected, but beautiful.”*

Unexpected, but beautiful.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

The air in my apartment felt heavy, the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock pressing in on me. I ran my thumb over the worn leather strap of my messenger bag, slumped beside me on the cushion like a loyal companion. Inside, it held the usual chaos—loose papers, half-graded essays, and a paperback poetry collection. Alex’s pressed flower bookmark was still tucked between its pages.

The bookmark had been vibrant once, a vivid blue that demanded attention. Now, the petals were faded and brittle, the edges curling inward like something retreating from the light. I rubbed the laminated surface absently, the memory of the day Alex gave it to me hovering just out of reach. A quiet moment, almost forgettable—a flower slipped between pages as we sat together on a park bench. But now, it felt like a relic, a shard of something I couldn’t quite let go of.

Clara deserved honesty. I knew that. But honesty always felt jagged in my hands, something I could hold but never wield gracefully.

I opened our message thread and typed out the words that had been circling in my mind all day:

*“Clara, I need to tell you something. When I sent that first text, I wasn’t in the best place. It was meant for someone else—my ex, Alex. I’m sorry if that makes things awkward, but I thought it was important to tell you.”*

I stared at the screen, the words glaring up at me like a challenge. It felt too formal, too stiff. I softened the phrasing:

*“Clara, I’ve been meaning to share something. That first text I sent—it wasn’t meant for you. It was for my ex, Alex. I just thought you should know, and I hope it doesn’t change anything between us.”*

Still not right. Too apologetic. I sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and made one final adjustment:

*“Clara, I think it’s only fair to tell you—I sent that first text by mistake. It was meant for my ex, Alex. I wasn’t in the best place at the time, but I’m glad it ended up with you.”*

There. Honest but not suffocating. Vulnerable, but not too much. I hit send before I could overthink it further and tossed my phone onto the coffee table like it might catch fire.

The seconds that followed stretched unbearably, each one pulling taut like a string about to snap. I leaned back, letting my head fall against the cushions, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

The past crept in, uninvited.

Alex and I had unraveled slowly, each thread pulling loose until we were left with nothing but frayed edges. I used to write them poems—lines about their green eyes and the way they stirred their coffee counterclockwise, always counterclockwise. But words lost their meaning when spoken into silences heavy enough to drown them.

A buzz from my phone snapped me back. Clara had replied.

*“Thanks for telling me. That does explain some things. I hope you don’t feel like you owe me more than you’re comfortable sharing.”*

I exhaled, the tension in my chest loosening just enough to breathe. She wasn’t angry. But there was something in her tone, a cautiousness I hadn’t noticed before, like a door cracked open just wide enough to peer through but not to step inside.

*“It’s not that,”* I typed back. *“I guess I just wanted you to know where I was coming from. It doesn’t change how much I appreciate our conversations. They’ve been… grounding.”*

The dots indicating her response appeared almost immediately.

*“Grounding is a good word for it. I think we’ve both been looking for something to hold onto.”*

Her words hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t just grounding—it was like finding a lighthouse after drifting aimlessly through the dark.

But the currents of Alex’s memory were still there, tugging at me, pulling me back to the past.

I stood, grabbing my bag and slinging it across my chest. The apartment’s stillness felt oppressive, and I needed to move, to do something, anything, to shake the weight of it all.

The crisp evening air greeted me as I stepped outside. The city hummed with its usual rhythm—cars passing, distant laughter, the occasional bark of a dog. The cobblestone streets glistened faintly under the glow of the streetlamps, and the scent of damp leaves lingered in the air. My feet carried me toward the park near the waterfront, where the river mirrored the city’s skyline in its dark, rippling surface.

The path was quiet at this hour, lampposts casting golden pools of light onto the pavement. I found an empty bench and sat, the chill of the metal seeping through my coat.

Alex had loved this path. We’d come here after long days, sitting close on this very bench as the water lapped against the stone edge. I used to read them drafts of my poems, my words reflected in their soft smile.

I pulled the poetry collection from my bag, the pressed flower bookmark still nestled between its pages. The petals were translucent now, their once-vivid blue faded to a pale ghost of itself. I held it up to the light, watching the way the edges curled inward, fragile but still holding its shape.

My phone vibrated again, pulling me back to the present. It was another message from Clara.

*“Do you ever feel like your past is something you carry, even when you want to leave it behind?”*

I stared at the screen, her words sinking in. It was uncanny how well she seemed to understand, even without knowing the details.

*“All the time,”* I replied. *“But I think the past shapes us, even when it’s heavy. Maybe the trick is figuring out how to carry it without letting it weigh you down.”*

The dots appeared again, then disappeared. I waited, the silence stretching like an unanswered question. When her reply finally came, it was simple.

*“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, too.”*

I closed my eyes, letting the words settle. Maybe we were both trying to find our way forward, navigating the shadows of our pasts. And maybe, just maybe, we could help each other in the process.

The bookmark slipped from the pages, landing softly on the bench beside me. I picked it up, holding it against the light one last time before tucking it back into my bag, zipping it safely inside.

One step at a time, I thought.

Tonight, the first step was letting the light of Clara’s words guide me forward.