Red Light

She sat alone in her apartment, gazing with vacant eyes at the rush hour traffic. The chasm within her chest was almost as empty as the spark in her hazelnut irises. One singular drop of water hit the glass of her window as loud honking ensued below. More drops quickly followed, blurring the lights of the cars that sat bumper to bumper.

Her stomach had yet to stop somersaulting as she replayed the text over and over in her mind: I’m just not happy anymore… personalities don’t match up as well as I’d like…

Every thought made her heart break just a little bit more, and as the rain fell harder, so did the tears from her eyes. She hugged her knees to her chest and let the sobs rip from her lungs as everything sank in.

She let her phone fall from her fingers, too weak to hold it any longer. She couldn’t muster enough feeling to care that her phone had clattered loudly onto the tile.

You weren’t good enough for him. You did something wrong. Those phrases mingled with the text he had just sent her, and she screamed. She picked up the nearest pillow and threw it across the room. Her cheeks were slick with tears, and her throat was raw. The nausea she had felt seconds before subsided and turned into a boiling knot of anger. She launched herself onto the couch, beating pillows and screaming into the cushions.

He couldn’t even call her. Just a text. That was all she was worth.

The traffic was slow as always—still the same angry cab drivers and bored-looking chauffeurs. She had cried so much already that no more tears came when she called on them. Her supply had dried up. Her head pounded with the same intensity her heart ached. She knew she needed to drink water, or even eat something, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the window.

It was a miracle in and of itself that she was able to get out of bed at all.

She pressed her forehead against the glass, letting her breath fog up the bright yellow taxis below. He still hadn’t texted her back, and somehow that hurt worse than the actual breakup. She had asked him one singular question: How long have you felt like this? She needed to know how much of it was a lie. That was all she asked. He was allowed to leave; that was fine. But how long had he pretended to love her?

For her own sanity, she wanted to gather the memories of the past couple of weeks and delete them from her mind. But in attempting to do so, she instead relived every second. She swallowed hard, trying to forget the cool rain she had felt on her shoulders as he spun her into his arms. It had felt so recent—the way he held her as he kissed her slowly, grabbing her thigh and dipping her as his wet curls tickled her cheeks.

Or the way his laugh sounded as he chased her in the wave pool. How warm he felt next to her, watching Stranger Things. The scent of his laundry detergent rubbing off on her every time they parted.

Her heart ached as she pushed herself away from the window. She couldn’t do this. 

She stumbled into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The dim light of her phone lit up the dark room as she crawled under the covers, pulling the sheets tightly around her like a barrier. Her fingers scrolled automatically, the videos on Instagram blurring as she tried to drown out the emptiness that stretched around her. She had already checked, he still followed her, but every picture of them had been taken down. It made her sob even harder than before.

The sound of her videos cut off and her phone rang, displaying one of her friends' names. She closed her eyes before picking up.

“Hey,” she tried to say brightly. She hadn’t told anyone what had happened yet.

“Hey, girl,” her friend replied. “How are you doing? I heard about the breakup.”

Oh.

“Um…” She paused. “I’m doing alright. How did you hear?”

“My boyfriend told me. I’m really sorry, I just wanted to check up on you. I know this is probably really hard for you. I know you loved him.”

She had almost forgotten that her friend’s boyfriend was best friends with her now ex-boyfriend. The tears that had escaped her all morning finally came.

“Yeah, I really did. He hasn’t responded to me yet. All he sent me was a text. I tried calling him multiple times before that too, and he would just never pick up. I woke up to a text yesterday.” The words just came pouring out of her as she told her how terrible she felt. How she couldn’t breathe. How everything hurt—not just emotionally, but physically too.

Her friend just listened, and when she was done, her friend told her how sorry she was and that if she ever needed anything, she could call her. Her friend hung up with promises to call later.

She turned her attention back to the videos, trying to find any video he had liked previously. She felt crazy, but it was the only thing that could distract her from crying at that moment.

She had yet to leave her room that day, but a knock at her front door dragged her out of bed. She opened her apartment door, not caring in the slightest that her eyes were puffy, she was still in pajamas, and her hair was the messiest it had ever been.

She stared at the random middle-aged man who held a bag of Chick-fil-A in one hand and a cell phone showing a DoorDash delivery to her address in the other. She nodded her thanks and accepted the delivery, smiling at the bag of food. Her heart warmed slightly knowing her friend had just sent her the meal.

She opened the bag with trembling hands, the familiar smell of Chick-fil-A filling the room—comforting, if only for a moment. But as she looked up, the reflection in the dark window caught her eye, and the realization hit her again: today was Christmas Eve. Her family would be gathering at the park, but he wouldn’t be there. Neither would his laughter or the warmth of his touch. And she… she would face it all alone. She stared at her ceiling, watching the shadows of her fan shudder in a continuous circle, the faint hum of the blades a distant, hollow comfort. The food was there, but it didn't fill the emptiness inside her. The silence of the apartment seemed to press in on her from all sides, making it impossible to escape the crushing weight in her chest.

Today would undoubtedly be difficult. She was supposed to meet her family for Christmas Eve dinner—everyone—not just her parents and siblings, but her cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents. They were all expecting him too. He was practically family at this point, especially to her little cousin, who had adored him almost as much as she did. And now, there would be an empty seat at the table. There would be no more laughter shared over holiday dinner, no more warmth from his presence beside her, no more "I love yous" whispered under the glow of Christmas lights.

Her little cousin would ask where he was. Her aunt would ask how she was holding up. Her heart sank at the thought of having to answer any of it.

How was she supposed to explain this?

Her phone still hadn’t buzzed with a text or a call. He still hadn’t responded to her. He hadn’t called to see how she was. No apology, no explanation. Only silence. The kind of silence that echoed louder than anything he could have said.

The only person she had heard from was the friend who had dropped off the food. The only person who cared enough to show up was someone who didn’t even know how badly her heart had shattered.

She glanced at the clock—5:08. The time felt irrelevant now. It wasn’t just about being late to the family dinner—it was the fact that she had to go at all, that she had to go without him. She needed to get up, to pull herself together, but everything felt too heavy. She had no idea how she was supposed to walk into that gathering and pretend to be okay, knowing the one person she needed the most wouldn’t be there.

Her family would talk, laugh, exchange gifts, and yet there would be an unspoken void in the room, a missing piece no one could replace. And she? She would sit there, alone in front of them all, with no one to hold her hand, no one to share the ache in her heart.

She forced herself to stand, her legs shaky as though her body was already bracing for the inevitable collapse. She reached for a flowy sundress, a deep red and bright enough to blend in with the holiday cheer that would surround her. But inside, there was nothing light about it. No amount of makeup or forced smiles could hide the jagged, bleeding piece of herself that was missing.

She tied her chestnut curls back into a bouncy ponytail with a silky ribbon, the motion automatic, like something she had done a thousand times before. But today, it felt foreign. It felt like a pretense, like she was getting ready for a life she no longer recognized.

Her life had gone from green to red in an instant, the bright promise of forward motion now replaced by the stillness of a halt. It was time to face her family, yes. But this time, the road ahead felt empty—no more him beside her, no more shared journey. She was alone at the intersection, unsure of which way to turn, with no signal telling her what came next. The holidays, once filled with laughter and warmth, now stretched before her like a long, desolate highway, and she had no choice but to drive it alone.