𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

2.

15 Years ago.
Beyoncé Knowles.

I woke up to an empty bed. The side where Onika usually slept was cold, the sheets untouched. My hand reached out instinctively, but all I found was nothing. I laid still for a moment, trying to shake the emptiness that had settled in my chest. I could hear her moving around in the kitchen, probably pretending like everything was normal.

But things hadn't been normal since she told me about the program.

A year and six months. I couldn't get those words out of my head. She was really going, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the only thing that ever made sense to me slip away.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin, letting the cool fabric brush against my skin. I wished I could hide under the covers, wished I didn't have to get up and face her. Face the truth.

Onika came back into the room a little later, her footsteps light and careful, like she was trying not to wake a sleeping giant. I didn't move, didn't acknowledge her. I could feel her sitting on the edge of the bed, her presence close but distant.

"Morning," she said softly, her fingers brushing my arm. I flinched, just slightly, but enough for her to notice.

"Morning," I mumbled back, staring at the ceiling.

I didn't want to look at her. Didn't want to see the guilt or the frustration or whatever else was lingering in her eyes. There was too much between us now, too much we hadn't said. And the space between us, both in the bed and in our lives, was only growing bigger.

The rest of the day was filled with that same tense energy. We went through the motions—ate breakfast together, sat on the couch, pretended like things were fine—but it felt like we were going through the steps of a routine we didn't want to perform anymore.

"So, I was thinking," Onika said, sitting next to me on the couch, her voice too casual, too rehearsed. "I might need to ship some of my stuff ahead of time. Maybe leave a few things here for when I come back."

I stared at the TV, barely paying attention to whatever was playing. Her words pierced through the noise in my head. Ship her stuff. That was real. That was happening. She was already talking about her new life, her new plans, and I was just... here.

"Ship your stuff," I muttered under my breath, bitterness rising up before I could stop it.

"What?" she asked, turning to me.

"You talkin' about shipping your shit, like you already gone," I said, my voice cold. "Like you ain't even thinking about what this is doin' to us."

Onika's eyes flashed with frustration, and I could see the shift in her posture. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I shrugged, still not looking at her. "It means you been making all these plans like I'm not even part of them. You talkin' about packing, shipping, moving, like this shit ain't gonna tear us apart."

Her jaw tightened, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "We talked about this, Beyoncé," she said, her voice sharp. "This ain't forever. It's just a year and a half."

"A year and a half?" I scoffed, finally turning to face her. "That's damn near forever. You expect me to just sit here, waitin' for you while you off livin' your dream? Like that's supposed to be easy for me?"

Onika stood up, frustration radiating from her. "You really think I'm gonna forget about you? Beyoncé, that's foul as hell. I love you, but I'm not gonna give up my dream just because you scared of a little distance."

"Scared?" I repeated, standing up too, my voice rising. "This ain't about bein' scared, Onika. This is about you makin' decisions like I don't even matter. You didn't ask me how I felt about this. You just assumed we'd be fine, but look at us! We ain't fine!"

She shook her head, her hands on her hips. "What do you want me to do, Beyoncé? You want me to stay here? Give up everything I've worked for, just to sit around and fight with you every damn day?"

Her words cut deep, but I wasn't about to back down. "Nah, what I want is for you to act like we're in this together. Like I mean somethin' to you. All I hear is 'my dream, my future,' but where do I fit into that? Where the hell is 'we'?"

Onika threw her hands up in the air, her voice louder now. "Damn, Bey! You actin' like I don't love you, like I'm just leaving you behind. I have to do this, Beyoncé. I have to go after this. If you can't handle that, then what the fuck are we even doing?"

Her words hit me like a brick, and I took a step back, my chest heaving. "So that's how you feel? You sayin' I'm holding you back now?"

She looked away, biting her lip like she knew she'd gone too far. But it was too late. The damage was already done.

"Beyoncé, I didn't mean it like that..."

"Nah, fuck that," I said, my voice breaking. "You said it. You said it, and you can't take it back."

The room was quiet now, the weight of everything we'd said pressing down on both of us. Onika's hands dropped to her sides, and she looked at me with a sadness I hadn't seen before. I turned away, unable to face her.

We didn't say anything else after that. What more was there to say?

For the next few days, we barely talked. Every time we tried, it ended in a fight. Small things turned into bigger things, and I could feel us drifting apart, bit by bit. We fought almost every day—about her leaving, about how we'd make things work, about how much this was hurting us both.

The tension was unbearable, but neither of us knew how to fix it. Every time we tried to make up, the same arguments came back. We couldn't talk about her leaving without tearing each other apart.

The last week before she left was the worst. By then, we weren't really talking. We went through the motions, but it felt like we were already living in separate worlds.

That night, she stayed up late packing, and I couldn't bring myself to help. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the sound of her packing echoing through the apartment. It felt like she was already gone, like I was watching her slip away and I couldn't do anything to stop it.

I wanted to go to her, to tell her I was sorry, that I didn't mean what I said. But I didn't. And neither did she.

The morning she left, it was quick. A kiss on the cheek, a quiet "I'll call you when I land." But there was no real goodbye. No last moment where we held each other and promised we'd make it work. It felt like the end, even if neither of us wanted to admit it.

I watched her walk out the door, the sound of her suitcase rolling behind her. And that was it. She was gone.

At first, we tried to stay in touch. She called when she got to Europe, and we talked, but it wasn't the same. The time difference made it hard, and when we did talk, it felt forced, like we were strangers trying to hold onto something that wasn't there anymore.

I'd email and page her, but sometimes she wouldn't reply for days, caught up in her new life. I couldn't blame her. She was living her dream. And I was just... here.

Slowly, without either of us saying it, we stopped talking. There wasn't one big moment where we broke up, no final fight. It just... ended. The distance did what I was afraid of all along. It broke us.

I'd still think about her sometimes, about what we had, and how much we loved each other. But love wasn't enough. Not this time.