Need you | Miles Fairchild

28 | picking up pieces

I had properly moved into Alice's apartment now. It smelt faintly of coffee and paper, a quiet kind of normal I hadn't felt in months. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, catching dust particles and making them dance in the golden light. I sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through old notebooks and sketches I'd abandoned when the chaos with Miles began.

Alice was in the kitchen, humming softly as she washed dishes. She never pressed me to talk about Miles, and I appreciated that. Her presence was steady, like an anchor I could cling to when the storm inside me threatened to pull me under.

I exhaled and ran my fingers over the edges of a sketchbook filled with half-finished drawings and notes scribbled in shaky handwriting. For weeks, I had been too angry, too hurt, too tangled up in everything that had happened to even pick it up. Now, it felt like reclaiming something that had always been mine.

It had been weeks since I confronted Miles at Rebecca's house. He'd tried to reach out once—a single voicemail that said, Can we talk?—and I didn't call back. I wasn't ready. I didn't want to be. He had hurt me in ways I wasn't sure I could fully process yet, and I wasn't about to let him back in without seeing real change.

I missed him sometimes. I won't lie. I missed the way he laughed when he was nervous, the way he could make me feel safe when everything else felt impossible. But missing him didn't mean I would allow him to hurt me again. Not now. Not ever.

⸻

Miles, I imagine, was struggling too.

I picture him replaying that night over and over—the confrontation, my tears, my words. I can see him pacing his room, running a hand through his hair, wondering how he had let things go so wrong. And I know, somewhere deep down, he's realizing that life doesn't just rewind. He can't undo the choices he made or the way he left me.

I know he's writing in a journal or talking to someone he trusts, trying to figure out how he became the kind of person who would hurt me. And I hope, for both our sakes, that he's learning that apologies alone aren't enough. That change takes time and effort—and patience.

⸻

I've been learning patience in my own way too.

I'm forcing myself to engage with the world again. I go back to work at the clothing store, reorganize my apartment, and dive into small creative projects. Some days, the memory of Miles sneaks up on me—a song, a phrase Alice says, a random thought—and it hurts like it used to. But I let it exist without letting it take over. I acknowledge it, breathe through it, and then move on.

Alice notices the changes in me. She doesn't say much—she never has—but her quiet presence is enough. The way she makes coffee in the morning, hums while folding laundry, or brushes a stray lock of hair from my face reminds me I don't have to face the world alone. I've come to realize I've got a strong support system, and that makes all the difference.

I've also learned to set boundaries. I don't respond to Miles' texts. I don't entertain the idea of reconciliation. I don't let the past dictate my present. It's hard—sometimes I want to hear from him, to know what he's thinking—but I remind myself why I'm doing this. I'm protecting myself. I'm reclaiming my life.

⸻

Miles has been adjusting too, I'm sure.

I can imagine him sitting on his bed, phone in hand, resisting the urge to text me every time he thinks of me. He's learned to stop showing up uninvited, to stop trying to force contact. Instead, he's been working on himself—journaling, talking to someone he trusts, reflecting on the mistakes he made.

I hope he realizes that healing won't be quick. He's going to carry the weight of how he treated me for a long time. I hope he also understands that I'm not going to let him dictate my happiness or my choices again. If there's a chance for us in the future, it will only happen when he proves, day after day, that he's changed—and that he respects me.

⸻

Meanwhile, I feel the first stirrings of normalcy returning.

I meet friends for coffee. I take long walks. I laugh again, sometimes unexpectedly. Miles and Rebecca are still in the background of my thoughts, but their shadows have faded. I focus on what I can control—my apartment, my work, my routines, my friendships. Alice reminds me gently that I don't owe anyone forgiveness or closure except to myself.

One evening, we walk along the quiet streets near the river, bags of groceries swinging in our hands. The sky is orange with the last light of day, the air smelling faintly like rain.

"I think I'm finally okay," I tell Alice quietly.

She glances at me and smiles. "I know you are. And if you ever doubt it, I'll remind you."

I laugh softly. I can feel the tension in my shoulders finally easing. I'm stronger than I thought. I've learned how to set boundaries, how to process my emotions, how to survive without relying on someone else to define me.

Even though part of me still loves Miles, I know love alone isn't enough. He has to prove he can meet me as an equal—someone who respects my decisions, my independence, and my strength.

⸻

Weeks pass. Summer deepens. I settle into a rhythm that feels like mine again. Miles stays in the background, his absence teaching him patience. I feel proud of myself for the small victories—making a meal, finishing a sketch, responding to a friend's text without hesitation.

I feel alive in a way I haven't for months.

I know reconciliation isn't guaranteed, and I don't know if it ever will happen. But for the first time in a long time, I feel in control of my own story. I've reclaimed my life. I've reclaimed myself.

And when the day comes that Miles is ready to show he's truly changed, I'll meet him as the person I am now—strong, independent, and unwilling to settle for anything less than respect and honesty.

Until then, I'll keep moving forward. One day, one choice, one small victory at a time.