watermelon mojito

part 9: it's over.

A week had passed, but to Troy, it felt like an eternity. The days bled into each other, each one filled with a gnawing emptiness that he couldn’t escape. Every morning, he woke up with the same sense of dread, his heart heavy with regret and a deep, aching loneliness. The nights were worse—hours spent staring at his phone, willing it to light up with a message from Rich. But no message ever came.

Troy had sent countless texts, each one more desperate than the last.

Troy: Rich, please talk to me.

Troy: I’m sorry. I miss you.

Troy: Please, just let me explain. We can work this out.

But the only response was silence. That silence was suffocating, like a weight pressing down on Troy’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He felt like he was drowning, and there was no one there to pull him up.

He hadn’t seen Rich since that night at the bar. After Rich had walked out, Troy had hoped that maybe, with time, Rich would cool off, that he’d be willing to talk. But as the days passed and the silence persisted, hope began to wither, replaced by a hollow, aching despair.

Troy couldn’t focus on anything. Work had become a blur; his shifts dragged on, and he went through the motions without really being present. His co-workers noticed the change in him—Jackie, especially, tried to get him to open up, to talk about what was going on. But Troy couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud, couldn’t admit just how badly he had messed up.

One evening, a week after Rich had left him at the bar, Troy found himself sitting in his car outside the smoothie shop after his shift had ended. The sky was dark, the only light coming from the dim streetlights and the glowing neon sign of the shop. He had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, and the thought of going home to his empty apartment filled him with a sense of dread.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling as he opened his messages. The last few texts he had sent to Rich stared back at him, unanswered. His throat tightened as he stared at the screen, the silence on the other end more painful than any harsh words could have been. He wanted to send another message, to reach out one last time, but the fear of more silence held him back.

Troy leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as he tried to keep the tears at bay. The last week had been a nightmare, and he was trapped in it, unable to wake up. The memories of Rich, of the times they had been happy, played on a loop in his mind, each one a cruel reminder of what he had lost.

The way Rich used to smile at him, that soft, affectionate smile that made Troy feel like he was the only person in the world who mattered. The late-night talks, the inside jokes, the quiet moments they had shared—moments that now felt like a lifetime ago. Troy’s chest tightened as he thought about the nights they had spent together, lying in bed, their fingers intertwined as they talked about their future. A future that now seemed impossible.

Troy opened his eyes, staring out at the empty parking lot. He felt like he was stuck, unable to move forward, unable to let go. He knew he had to, that he couldn’t keep holding on to the hope that Rich would come back. But knowing it and actually doing it were two very different things.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn’t stay in this limbo forever. He had to try to move on, even if the thought of doing so felt like ripping out a part of himself. With shaking hands, he unlocked his phone and opened the messages one more time. His thumb hovered over Rich’s name, his heart pounding in his chest.

Troy: Rich… I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I just wanted to say I love you. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you’re okay.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, before the fear of more silence could stop him. As soon as the message was sent, he regretted it, the pain of knowing it would go unanswered hitting him like a wave.

But this time, something was different. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Troy’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw Rich’s name flash on the screen. For a moment, he just stared at it, unable to believe it. His hands shook as he opened the message, his breath catching in his throat.

Rich: I’m fine, Troy. But we need to stop this. It’s over.

The finality of those words hit Troy like a sledgehammer. The hope he had been clinging to shattered, leaving him with nothing but the cold, hard truth. It was over. Rich had moved on, and there was no going back.

Troy read the message over and over, the words blurring as tears filled his eyes. He wanted to respond, to say something—anything—that might change Rich’s mind. But he knew, deep down, that nothing he said would make a difference. The damage was done, and there was no fixing it.

He sat there in his car, staring at the screen as the tears fell freely now, his chest heaving with the sobs he couldn’t hold back any longer. He had lost the one person who had meant everything to him, and it was all his fault.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Troy wiped his eyes and took a shaky breath. He knew he couldn’t keep doing this to himself, couldn’t keep hoping for something that was never going to happen. He had to let go, even if it felt like it would tear him apart.

With a heavy heart, he deleted the message thread, the last connection he had to Rich disappearing with the press of a button. It felt like losing him all over again, the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.

Troy sat in the darkness of the car, the silence surrounding him like a shroud. He felt empty, hollow, like a part of him had been ripped away, leaving behind nothing but pain.

Eventually, he started the car and drove away, not knowing where he was going or what he would do next. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, even if he didn’t know how to take the next step.

As he drove through the darkened streets, Troy’s mind was a whirlwind of memories and regrets. But one thought kept repeating in his mind, over and over.

It was over. And there was no going back.