Chapter 7 - The Real Goodbye

Chapter 7: The Real Goodbye

The morning after was soft.

Not in any grand or sweeping way. Just soft—muted sunlight through tired curtains, a breeze that stirred the blinds without asking permission. The world, as if aware of its finality, was gentler.

Julian lay awake in bed, fully clothed, arms folded beneath his head. No alarms. No plans.

No rewinds.

He made coffee, burned the toast. Ate it anyway. The silence in his apartment no longer felt like failure—just an absence he’d grown used to. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Her scarf was still draped over the chair she once called hers.

He didn’t touch it.

Later that afternoon, he walked to the bookstore where they first met. The place was still there—smaller now somehow, or maybe just older. The window display had changed. So had he.

He didn’t go in.

He just stood across the street, letting the memory pass through him like a breeze. Not clinging. Not mourning.

Just letting it be.

That evening, he sat by the river. Guitar across his lap, but untouched.

The city moved around him—cyclists, couples, someone’s dog chasing someone’s child. Laughter echoed, faint and real. It didn’t sting.

He remembered a time when all he wanted was to go back. To undo.

But now, the past felt like an echo that had finally settled.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Siena.

“Thank you for the song. I think I finally saw you.”

He stared at it for a long while. No reply. Just a quiet exhale, the kind that feels like a closing door that doesn’t slam.

He pressed play on the last voice memo he’d recorded weeks ago:

“Julian. If you’re hearing this, remember: don’t forget who you were before the rewinds. Before the edits. Before you started trying to build a better past. She loved you when you were flawed.”

The voice cracked at the end. He let it play out. Let it fade.

Then he deleted it.

Not out of anger.

Out of peace.

Later, he picked up the guitar and began to play.

Not their song.

Not his song.

Just music.

Unwritten. Unnamed. Unrehearsed.

And for the first time, he let it lead him.

Somewhere forward.

Somewhere free.