Unspoken Goals

She Isn't You

Continuation

Abigail didn't say a word when she walked back into the apartment. Everyone was still on the couch, the TV humming faintly in the background. She didn't owe them an explanation—they could read it all over her face.

Whatever happened between her and Juliette hadn't gone the way anyone hoped.

"I'm going on a run," she said quietly, already heading toward her room to change.

No one tried to stop her. They knew better.

---

The air outside was cold enough to sting.

Each breath burned, but she welcomed the ache—it was something real, something to ground her when everything else felt like it was slipping away. Her sneakers pounded the pavement in uneven rhythm, her heart trying to catch up with all the things she'd run from.

She passed the park where they used to walk on late afternoons, sunlight catching in Juliette's hair while she teased her about her terrible taste in music. She passed the corner store where they used to split slushies after practice, Juliette always stealing the last sip.
Every street she crossed felt haunted. Every shadow whispered her name like a memory she couldn't outrun.

By the time she made it back to the apartment, her lungs were screaming, and her legs trembled with exhaustion. Sweat clung to her skin, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. But the ache inside her—deeper than muscle—didn't fade.

When she stepped through the door, the apartment was quiet.
Empty.
Good.
She didn't have it in her to explain the mess she'd made.

Abigail trudged toward her room, ready to collapse, to just stop feeling. But when she pushed the door open—she froze.

Juliette was there.
Sitting at her desk.

Her hair was messy, eyes swollen and red, hands twisted together in her lap. She was still in her hoodie and jeans—the same outfit she'd worn for her date.

Abigail's breath hitched. "What are you doing here?"

Juliette stood slowly, hesitant but steady. "Abigail."

Her name sounded fragile in Juliette's voice, like she was afraid it might break.

Abigail shook her head, heart pounding. "I don't understand. I heard you drive away."

"I did," Juliette said quietly. "But when I got halfway down the block, I stopped. I thought about it, and then I turned around."

"Why?" Abigail's voice came out small. "Why would you come back?"

Juliette's gaze lifted to hers, raw and honest. "Because I realized I didn't want to go on that date."

Abigail's chest tightened. "Why not?"

Juliette swallowed hard. "Because she isn't you."

The words hit like a punch—sharp and unrelenting. All the air left Abigail's lungs.

She felt her knees weaken as she took a slow step forward. "Jules—"

"Do you know how many times I've wished you'd just say it?" Juliette cut her off, her voice trembling. "That you loved me? That I wasn't the only one who felt it?"

Abigail's throat burned. "Every day," she whispered. "Every single day I wanted to. But I was—" her voice cracked—"I was a coward."

Juliette let out a bitter, broken laugh. "Yeah. You were. You left me to figure out how to stop loving you while you hid behind excuses."