The apartment felt wrong without him.
Mara noticed it the moment she woke.
Not in any dramatic way no sudden ache, no sharp panic but in the quiet details that refused to align. The absence pressed in subtly, like furniture rearranged overnight. The space where Julien's shoes usually sat by the door was empty. The faint scent of coffee no longer lingered in the kitchen. Even the silence sounded different thinner, hollowed out.
She lay in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last twenty-four hours with ruthless precision.
The argument.
His restraint.
The way he'd packed without accusation.
Giving you space.
The words echoed again, unwanted and persistent.
She sat up abruptly and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"This is fine," she told the empty room. "This is what you wanted."
But the words didn't settle.
She moved through the apartment mechanically showering, dressing, making coffee she didn't finish. Every small habit felt slightly off, as if it had been borrowed instead of lived in.
Mara opened her laptop and tried to work.
She lasted twenty minutes.
The legal language blurred, her eyes refusing to focus. Her thoughts kept drifting uninvited to memories she hadn't meant to form. Julien sleeping in the armchair. Julien standing beside her on the overlook, blocking the wind without touching her. Julien listening without interrupting.
It had been easier when she'd believed loneliness was safer.
She slammed the laptop shut and stood, pacing the length of the living room. Outside, snow fell steadily, the storm refusing to loosen its grip. The world felt paused, suspended in white.
Just like her.
Her phone buzzed.
Her sister again.
"Mara," Ada said carefully when she answered. "Any update?"
"No," Mara replied. "And I'm not coming back yet."
A pause. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Another pause longer this time. "You don't sound sure."
Mara clenched her jaw. "I don't have time for this."
"That's what you said after Mom died," Ada replied quietly.
The words cut deep.
"That's not fair," Mara snapped.
"No," Ada agreed. "But it's true."
They ended the call soon after, neither satisfied.
Mara stood in the middle of the living room, heart racing, anger and grief tangling into something ugly and familiar. February always did this peeled her back layer by layer until she was raw and defensive and tired of holding herself together.
She grabbed her coat and left the apartment without thinking.
The town looked brighter today, cruelly so. Valentine's decorations multiplied with every street. Florists lined their windows with roses in shades that felt too intentional. Couples strolled hand in hand, careless and unafraid.
Mara walked past them all, her steps quick and sharp.
She didn't know where she was going until she found herself standing in front of the cemetery at the edge of town.
She froze.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest.
She hadn't planned this. Hadn't meant to come here again.
But her feet carried her forward anyway.
The cemetery was quiet, snow settling softly over the stones. No decorations. No noise. Just stillness.
Mara walked slowly between the rows until she reached the grave she'd visited two days earlier. The fresh flowers she'd left were dusted with snow now, petals bowed under the weight.
She knelt and brushed the snow away with bare fingers, the cold biting into her skin.
"I'm doing it again," she whispered. "I'm pushing people away before they can leave on their own."
The confession trembled out of her, fragile and unguarded.
Her mother's name stared back at her from the stone, unmoving, eternal.
"You were right," Mara continued quietly. "Love doesn't disappear. It stays. And that's the problem."
She sat back on her heels, tears burning but refusing to fall. She had learned long ago how to stop them. How to lock everything down before it spilled.
But today, February pressed too hard.
Julien's face surfaced unbidden in her mind not hurt, not angry. Just tired. Patient. Disappointed without demanding more.
She pressed her palm to her chest, surprised by the ache there.
"I don't know how to do this without losing myself," she admitted to the cold air. "I don't know how to want someone and survive it."
The cemetery offered no answers.
When she finally stood and turned back toward town, the sky had darkened again. Snow fell heavier now, thick and relentless.
By the time she reached the apartment, night had settled in fully.
She unlocked the door slowly.
The lights were off.
For one reckless, hopeful second, she imagined Julien standing there anyway, bag forgotten, patience extended further than she deserved.
The illusion shattered instantly.
She moved through the apartment alone, every step echoing too loudly. She sat on the couch, staring at the blank wall, her thoughts unraveling.
This was what she had chosen.
So why did it feel like punishment?
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
Julien: Roads are clearing. I'll be back tomorrow. I wanted you to know.
She stared at the screen.
He hadn't had to tell her. Could have stayed gone. Could have protected himself.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She typed: Okay.
Deleted it.
Typed again: You don't have to.
Deleted that too.
Finally, she locked the phone and set it face down beside her.
Her chest ached with words she refused to send.
That night, sleep came in fragments.
Dreams pulled her back into hospital corridors and candlelit rooms, into spaces where love and loss collided without warning. She woke more than once, breath shallow, heart racing.
Each time, she reached instinctively for the space beside her on the couch.
Each time, it was empty.
By morning, her resolve had frayed.
Mara sat at the kitchen table, coffee untouched, watching the snow fall. Valentine's Day loomed closer now unavoidable, heavy with expectation.
She had always believed survival meant control.
But maybe just maybe it also meant choosing not to be alone.
When her phone buzzed again, she didn't hesitate this time.
Mara: Come back safely.
Three words.
Honest. Terrifying.
She set the phone down and exhaled shakily.
February wasn't finished with her yet.
And for the first time, Mara wasn't sure she wanted it to be.