Chasing Shadows

The clock on my nightstand blinks 2:17 a.m., its red glow bleeding into the ceiling. I can’t sleep. My phone warm in my hand, Daniel’s Insta profile open, his last post—a blurry sunset over some lake—taunting me with its indifference. He hasn’t posted in weeks, but I refresh anyway, as if a new photo might hold the answer to why he walked away. My thumb hovers over the message icon, words I’ll never send piling up in my head: Why wasn’t I enough?

The apartment is too quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak, every thought. I roll onto my side, the sheets tangled from hours of tossing, and stare at the empty space where Daniel used to sleep. His scent—cedar and something sharper, like lime—is long gone, but I swear I catch it sometimes, a ghost in the fibers of my pillow. I open our old texts, scrolling to a night he called me “babe” and meant it. Or did he? I dissect every word, every emoji, searching for the moment I lost him. The screen blurs. Tears, again. I wipe them away, angry at myself for crying, angrier at him for not caring.

I toss the phone onto the bed and sit up, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. I step back to the bed and grab the phone, just in case. The apartment is a mess: dishes piled in the sink, laundry spilling from a basket, a half-empty coffee mug on the counter. It wasn’t like this when we were together. Daniel liked things tidy, said it kept his mind clear. I wonder if he’s keeping someone else’s place tidy now. The thought stabs, and I press my palms to my eyes, trying to push it away.

We met two years ago at a used bookstore, of all places. I was flipping through a dog-eared copy of Mrs. Dalloway, pretending I understood Woolf’s stream of consciousness, when he leaned over and said, “That one’s better if you read it twice.” His smile was crooked, his hair a little too long, and I was hooked before I knew his name. We talked for hours that day, about books, then music, then nothing at all—just the kind of nonsense that feels profound when you’re falling. He kissed me outside the shop, under a streetlamp, and I felt like I was in a movie. How do you go from that to nothing?

I shuffle to the kitchen, the linoleum sticking to my feet. The fridge hums, its light harsh when I open it. There’s half a bottle of wine from last week, a leftover from a night I tried to “move on” by drinking alone. I pour a glass. Back in the bedroom, I pick up the scarf he left behind. Gray wool, frayed at the edges. I hold it to my face, inhaling, but it smells like my laundry detergent now. Still, I wrap it around my neck, as if it could bring him back.

I open my laptop, the screen waking to Daniel’s X page. He’s got 342 followers, up three since last week. Who are they? I click through, scanning profiles: a coworker, a random guy with a dog, a woman with a private account and a flower emoji in her bio. My stomach twists. Is she the reason? I imagine her—blonde, probably, with a laugh that doesn’t grate like mine sometimes did. I hate her, and I don’t even know if she exists.

I met some of his friends once, at a bar downtown. They were loud, charming, the kind of people who make you feel like you’re auditioning for a movie role. Daniel was different around them—sharper, more guarded. I laughed too hard at his jokes, clung to his arm, desperate to fit in. Later, he said I was “trying too hard.” The words stung, but I laughed it off, told myself he was just tired. Now I wonder if that was the start of it, the first crack before we crumbled to dust.

My phone buzzes—a text from Mia, my best friend. You okay? Haven’t heard from you. I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering. I want to tell her I’m fine, but the lie feels too heavy. I set the phone down, unanswered. Mia doesn’t get it. She thinks I should block him, go on dates, “reclaim my power.” But what power? Daniel took it when he walked out, leaving me to pick apart the wreckage.

I scroll through our texts again, landing on the night he ended it. We were at his place, eating takeout on his couch. He was quiet, picking at his noodles, and I knew something was wrong. “Claire,” he said, not looking at me, “this isn’t working.” No explanation, just those words, cold and final. I asked why, begged for a reason, but he just shook his head, said he needed space, time to think. I left his apartment in a daze, the city lights blurring through my tears. That was three months ago, and I’m still waiting for him to change his mind.

The wine tastes sour now, but I sip it anyway. I open a blank message to him, typing and deleting, typing and deleting. I miss you. Why did you leave? Was it me? The words feel pathetic, and I hate myself for them. I slam the laptop shut and pace the room, the scarf dragging on the floor. I need to get out of here, away from this apartment and the memories here.

I grab my keys and slip on sneakers, not bothering to change out of my oversized T-shirt and leggings. The night air is sharp, the street quiet except for the distant drone of traffic. I walk to the café where we had our first real date, a little place with mismatched chairs and expensive coffee. It’s closed now, the windows dark, but I press my face to the glass, imagining us inside—him laughing, me spilling sugar on the table. He thought it was cute then. When did it stop being cute?

I sit on the curb, the concrete cold through my clothes. A car passes, its headlights sweeping over me, and I wonder if he ever drives by here, if he thinks of me at all. My mind spirals again, replaying every moment I could’ve been better—funnier, prettier, less needy. I was too much, or maybe not enough. I don’t know which is worse. Maybe I should drive by his house and see if he’s home.

Back home, it’s 4:03 a.m. I can’t sleep. The scarf is still around my neck, a weight I can’t shake. I open my laptop again, but this time I don’t go to his profile. Instead, I search his name, digging through Insta and Facebook for any trace of him. A post from a week ago mentions him—a friend tagged him at a concert. He’s smiling in the photo, his arm around someone I can’t see. My chest tightens, and I slam the laptop shut again, harder this time.

I crawl into bed, pulling the covers over my head. The scarf smells like nothing now, just fabric. I think about that first kiss, under the streetlamp, how I thought it meant forever. I was wrong. He was just a moment, and I’ve been chasing a shadow ever since. The realization hurts, but it’s clear, like the first deep breath after holding it too long.

I grab my phone and open his Insta profile one last time. My finger hovers over the “Follow” button, then slides to “Block.” I hesitate, my heart pounding. It’s not moving on, not really, but it’s something. I press it, the screen shifting to a blank page. For a moment, I feel lighter, like I’ve cut a thread tying me to him. It won’t last—I know I’ll unblock him tomorrow, or the next day—but right now, it’s enough.

I set the phone down and close my eyes. The clock ticks toward dawn, and I’m still awake, but the weight in my chest is a little less. Maybe tomorrow I’ll call Mia, or clean the apartment, or throw out the scarf. Maybe I’ll start to forget him. For now, I lie still, letting the quiet settle, and wait for sleep that might finally come.