Letting go wasn't a single moment.
It wasn't a thunderstorm of goodbye texts or a dramatic outburst in the hallway. It didn't come with tears streaming down her face as she screamed "I'm done." It wasn't cinematic.
It was quiet.
It was subtle.
It was… cruelly slow.
It came in waves she never asked for—ripples of memories that hit her at random, without warning. It showed up when she least expected it: in the taste of strawberry milk from the school cafeteria, in the lyrics of a song on someone's speaker during lunch, in the familiar silhouette caught in her peripheral vision.
Letting go was a thousand small choices Erica had to make every single day.
It was waking up and choosing not to text Nicole, even though her fingers hovered over the keyboard for far too long. Even though there were nights she typed entire paragraphs—jokes, questions, confessions—and then deleted them before hitting send. Not because she didn't want to talk. But because she knew the reply might be indifferent… or worse, wouldn't come at all.
Because silence had become safer than another dry "lol" or a painfully polite "I'm glad you're doing well."
It was protecting herself from the slow decay of someone drifting away.
It was hearing Nicole's laugh echo in the hallway and forcing herself to keep walking.
Even though once upon a time, that laugh used to be hers. Something Erica earned with cheesy impressions and late-night calls and ridiculous knock-knock jokes that barely made sense. Now, someone else was making her laugh.
That realization? It sliced cleaner than any words ever could.
Letting go was fighting the ache in her chest every time she saw Nicole's hand brush someone else's arm casually—friendly, familiar. Innocent to everyone but devastating to her.
It was choosing not to flinch.
Not to look back.
Not to let her expression crack even for a second.
And it was fighting the damn muscle memory of love—how every instinct screamed to reach for Nicole when she cried, to smile when she smiled, to fill the space beside her during class like she used to. How could love be so wired into her bones that even breathing sometimes felt like betrayal?
It was deleting old photos—not out of hate. Never hate. She could never hate her.
But because scrolling through them felt like drowning with a smile.
There were too many: selfies in the art room, blurry shots from field trips, soft close-ups taken when Nicole wasn't looking—photos that held pieces of happiness Erica couldn't go back to. They didn't feel like memories anymore. They felt like illusions. Like doors to rooms she could no longer enter.
So she deleted them. One by one.
Each click like pulling out a splinter that had lodged itself in her chest.
It was saying "I'm okay" to friends who asked—sometimes too gently, like they knew she wasn't. Whispering it with a shaky smile as she picked at her food, as her chest screamed the opposite.
Because the world didn't stop for heartbreak.
Because people expected her to move on.
And because she was tired of answering questions she didn't have the strength to explain.
Letting go was brutal because loving Nicole had been so easy.
God, it had been easy.
Like sunlight after days of rain. Like music in an empty room. Like breathing after you thought you'd forgotten how.
Loving her had been natural.
Effortless.
It was falling asleep to the sound of her voice. It was inside jokes and shared hoodies and the soft way Nicole used to say her name when no one else was around. It was almost kissing under the rain but deciding to wait. It was knowing what Nicole felt without her saying a word.
But forgetting her?
Impossible.
Because Nicole lingered.
In songs on the radio that made her chest tighten.
In late-night dreams that left Erica crying into her pillow, reaching out for someone who wasn't there anymore.
In the scent of citrus shampoo when someone walked by—because that was Nicole's.
In the corner of every room, every hallway, every laugh that didn't quite match hers but still made Erica turn.
Even in the silence.
Especially in the silence.
Some days, Erica would catch herself zoning out mid-conversation, staring at nothing, and realize she had been thinking of her again. Her friends would notice—Risha, Audrey, even Kim—and they would exchange quiet looks, none of them wanting to say the name out loud. But it was always there. A ghost between them.
Sometimes, they'd slip up.
"Hey, remember that time Nicole—"
"Oh… sorry. I didn't mean to bring her up."
Erica would just nod. Smile. Change the subject.
But later, she'd sit on her bed, hug her pillow, and wonder if Nicole remembered that story too. If she ever laughed at the memory the same way Erica still did, even through tears.
Letting go wasn't closure.
It wasn't healing.
It was a wound she carried, a shadow she couldn't outrun.
It was choosing herself—over and over—on the days she least wanted to.
Because some mornings, she still wanted to give in.
To go back.
To pretend none of it had happened. That they were still what they used to be.
But reality was cruel.
Nicole wasn't coming back. At least not the version of her Erica once knew.
And the new version? The distant, polite stranger with guarded eyes?
She wasn't someone Erica could love—not without losing herself.
So, she held on to the smallest wins.
The mornings she didn't cry.
The days she made it through without checking Nicole's profile.
The nights she laughed with her friends and actually meant it.
She found peace in small things—sunsets at the park, sketching in the back of her notebook, taking long walks with Risha while talking about everything but love.
And sometimes, Angel would show up, casually offering her snacks or teasing her about how serious her face looked when she zoned out. Angel never pushed. Never pried. Just stayed close enough to matter without asking for anything in return.
Erica didn't know what it meant yet.
But it felt nice.
Safe.
Letting go wasn't forgetting. It wasn't erasing. It wasn't pretending the love didn't matter.
It did matter.
But Erica was slowly learning that the love you give someone doesn't always come back. That sometimes, love isn't enough to make someone stay.
And sometimes, the most powerful act of love… is choosing yourself instead.
Even when your heart still whispers their name in the quietest hours of the night.
Even when you're not ready.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.
Letting go was hard.
But she was doing it anyway.