Chapter 83: Eighty Three

I don’t know what I thought I would find.

Closure?

Clarity?

It was after midnight when I gave in.

Jacob was asleep beside me, his breathing even, one arm loosely draped across my waist. I’d spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, feeling like my body was lying here next to him but my mind was somewhere else entirely - stuck in that office, replaying Declan’s voice cracking as he told me, There is nothing to be said.

Wasn’t there? I, for one, had so much to say to him. So much to ask him, too.

I shifted slowly, carefully. Slipped my phone off the nightstand and padded into the hallway, barefoot. The floor was cold beneath my feet. I leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, screen dimmed, heart thudding like I was about to commit a crime.

I went again to his LinkedIn. This time, I was determined to find something, anything about his life other than his professional developments. God, why didn’t he have Instagram or Twitter like a normal person?

Pressing ‘D’ on the keyboard and he was the first suggestion. Dr. Declan G. Ashwell – Professor, Environmental Economics. Development Consultant. Chicago, New York, Delhi.

He had changed his profile picture since the last time I checked his page.

Interesting.

Did he know I would end up here? Did he do it for me?

I shook the foolish thought from my brain.

I think in all his hatred of me, he had stopped caring. He probably just did it cause he took on this new position.

He looked different in this profile picture. A few years older, sure. His jaw a little sharper, his hair swept back more deliberately. Still handsome in that maddening, unreachable way. Still unreadable behind those calm, serious eyes.

There wasn’t much new on his page. A few work updates. An article he’d shared from the World Bank about urban sanitation. Standard stuff.

But it was the comments that got me.

One name showed up multiple times on his posts, in his likes. Sabrina Thorne. Her profile picture was the kind of effortless pretty that made my stomach turn: wine glass in hand, glossy hair, sunlit European cafe in the background.

I clicked.

PR consultant. Chicago and London.

Smart. Blonde. Stunning.

She had posted something six months ago: "Grateful for this one. Four countries, one heart."

With a photo of them, her kissing his cheek in front of a cathedral.

I stared at it for too long.

Zoomed in.

His eyes were crinkling at the corners. He looked... happy.

No tags since then.

Her more recent posts were solo. Quotes about “growth” and “rebuilding.” One boomerang of a smashed champagne glass. A cryptic caption. "Some endings are actually escapes. Lessons you can learn about rebuilding from scratch."

I went back to his page. Nothing about her. Nothing about anyone. Just work and climate change and clean, curated professionalism.

But they had been together. And not casually.

I could feel it in the way he smiled in that photo. In the way her hand curled around the collar of his shirt like she belonged there.

And now?

Gone.

I should’ve stopped.

I knew I should’ve stopped.

But I searched her name on Instagram next. Her account was public.

There she was on a boat in Santorini. Hiking in Patagonia. Clinking glasses at some rooftop bar. Declan wasn’t in a single picture.

I clicked on the one from Patagonia. I clicked on likes. Declan A.

Fuck, he had an Instagram?

I clicked on his profile. It had nothing but his name. No posts, not even a profile picture.

I scrolled until my thumb ached.

Then I saw it.

A comment on one of her older photos, where she and Declan were sitting at a fountain, shoes off, laughing at something off-camera.

From a friend: “Miss this. You two were perfect.”

Her reply, dated four weeks ago: “Not everything perfect stays.”

I locked my phone.

My hands were cold. My throat tighter than I wanted to admit.

So.

Declan had moved on. Loved someone else. Lost her too. Or left her.

I didn’t know what that meant. Not for him. Not for me.

Only that the hollow ache in my chest wasn’t just guilt anymore.

It was jealousy.

And something darker. Something lonelier.

Because I was the one who left.

But I was also the one who stayed behind.

I stayed with Jacob. I stayed with the life that made sense. I stayed in the safety of someone who had shown up when everything else fell apart.

A floorboard creaked. I jumped.

“Willow?” Jacob’s voice was low, groggy. “You okay?”

I turned, phone half-hidden behind me. “Yeah. Just needed water.”

He rubbed his eyes, blinking at me from the bedroom doorway. “Come back to bed?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

He waited a second longer, then nodded and padded back.

I stood there a little longer. Still. Quiet.

I should’ve put the phone down. I really, really should’ve. Should have gone back to bed, with Jacob.

But pain has this funny way of making you curious. Desperate, even. For clarity. For a story that makes sense of the ache in your chest. And so I clicked again.

Back to LinkedIn. Back to her.

Sabrina Thorne. Sleek, hyper-competent. The kind of woman who probably drank her coffee black and gave flawless TEDx talks in power suits.

Her profile linked to a personal website, polished and professional. White space. Serif fonts. A monochrome photo of her smiling like she had the world figured out. She had testimonials from CEOs, feature articles in Forbes, a few speaking gigs in Amsterdam and Geneva. One section was called Reflections. I clicked on a post near the top:

“When Love Asks for Less Than You Deserve.”

I didn't expect it to be about him.

I didn’t expect it to hit like a confession.

There were no names. No pointed details. Just something raw, quiet, and heartbreakingly composed.

“He didn’t cheat. He didn’t lie. But I loved someone who couldn’t stop reaching for a ghost.

You can’t compete with a memory, no matter how much future you offer.”

I stared at the screen, blinking back a strange tightness behind my eyes. My thumb hovered above the screen, itching to scroll but afraid of what else I might read.

“It’s devastating to realize the man you love is haunted by ghosts he doesn’t want to exorcise.

And it’s cruel how sometimes, the ghost wins.”

I dropped the phone on the bed like it had burned me.

I sat still, trying to quiet the pulse pounding in my ears.

Declan had been with her. Had tried, built something, maybe even loved her. But not enough. Not completely.

Because somewhere, I was still in the room.

I picked up the phone again and typed into the search bar.

“Declan G Ashwell + environmental economics.”

Articles, interviews, a TEDx talk in New York. I tapped play on the video, volume low, my screen tilted discreetly in case Jacob stirred in the next room.

There he was. Standing on stage, calm and precise. A navy blazer, slight stubble, a voice deeper than I remembered. Steadier.

“We talk about development like it’s neutral. But every blueprint has a bias. The real question is: development for whom?”

I watched the crowd nod, heard the applause.

He looked… God. He looked like everything I used to know he would become. Sharp. Passionate.

I sat there, blinking, absorbing the strange ache that came with watching someone become the person you once imagined they might be, with you.

Scrolling again, I found a podcast interview. I skipped the intro until I heard his voice.

“What keeps you grounded?” the host asked.

A pause.

“Leaving things unfinished,” Declan replied, after a beat. “That’ll humble you real quick.”

My stomach clenched.

I pressed the screen off, the black mirror of it reflecting the worry on my face. I sat still in the dark.

I thought about Sabrina’s post again.

“The ghost wins.”

I lay in my bed, twisting the engagement ring around my finger until the metal pinched. Jacob was planning our wedding. He talked about flowers and playlists and vegan catering. He made Noah lunchboxes and bought him comic books and called him “our little man.”

But tonight, in the quiet of my house, I wasn’t thinking about Jacob.

I was thinking about Declan’s voice. The bitterness behind his words. The restraint in his eyes when he looked at me, like he was fighting every instinct not to say what he really felt.

He hated me.

Or maybe he still loved me.

Or maybe both.

I covered my face with my hands and let out a soundless scream.