maybe this time it'll be different

Jules was angry.

The anger was sharp and biting. Anger that curled hot and fast inside Jules’ chest the moment Mika walked away.

It wasn’t supposed to go like that—the morning, the shift, them. One minute, they were tangled in the sheets of an on-call room, the world stripped down to quiet touches and whispered words. The next, Mika was in the locker room, apologising—for what, Jules didn’t know—and then leaving.

Not just stepping away. Leaving.

In the middle of the day. In the middle of their shift.

In the middle of everything.

Jules didn’t move at first—didn’t chase after Mika when she kissed her, didn’t scream at her to stop walking away, didn’t even register the sound of the locker room door clicking shut.

She just stood there, her mouth still burning from the kiss Mika left behind, and felt the first crack run down the centre of her chest.

And then came the anger.

Because how could Mika do this? How could she just leave—without a full explanation, without a real conversation, without giving Jules a chance to say, Don’t go?

It wasn’t fair.

Mika had always been a little reckless, a little chaotic—but she didn’t run. Not like this. Not from Jules.

Jules stormed through the rest of the day with that anger burning in her stomach—snapping at Blue when he asked if she was okay, avoiding Simone after she took the fall for Jules, and trying—failing—to convince herself that she didn’t care that Mika was gone.

But then the day dragged on, and the anger didn’t stay.

Because the patient Jules checked in on—the one who’d been rushed into surgery after attempting to shoot her friend, no—her colleague, the patient who Jules had forgotten to strap in—was awake now. His girlfriend sat at his bedside, wide-eyed and wringing her hands, and when Jules tried to offer some reassurance, the woman shook her head.

“He was a good guy,” she said softly. “And then he just… shut down. I don’t know why he thinks he needs to do things alone.”

And Jules had replied with, “Let’s hope this is a wake-up call.”

Because all she could think about was Mika.

Mika—who was good. So good. Jules knew that better than anyone.

Mika, who had lost her sister in a car accident—the same accident Mika had barely survived.

Mika, who had never once let Jules hold the weight of that grief with her.

Instead, Mika carried it alone. Quietly.

And now, Mika was gone—just like that patient had once shut out the person who loved him most, Mika had done the same to Jules.

Jules' anger cracked, slipping into something heavier, something colder.

Sadness.

Because Mika wasn’t coming back—not tonight, maybe not for days, maybe not at all. Jules didn’t know. Mika hadn’t told her. Mika hadn’t trusted Jules enough to let her in, to say, I’m breaking or I’m not okay or I need you.

She’d just kissed Jules like a goodbye and walked away.

And it hurt—God, it hurt—more than Jules knew what to do with.

By the time Jules made her way to the ambulance bay, searching for Simone—because if she was going to make this day just a little less awful, she had to fix something—the sadness had settled deep into her bones.

But when she stepped outside, she froze.

Simone was there—but so was Lucas.

And they were kissing.

Jules’ stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know—about whatever complicated, frustrating thing Simone and Lucas had—but seeing it, right now, after everything…

It made her resent them both.

Because Lucas was there.

And Mika wasn’t.

Because Simone got to have this moment—a kiss, a connection—while Jules was standing there, carrying the ache Mika had left behind.

Because Simone and Lucas were together, and Mika was gone.

The unfairness of it—the sharp, brutal weight of it—pressed into Jules’ chest until she couldn’t breathe.

She felt like she was being torn open—by Mika’s absence, by the mess with Simone, by the fact that she didn’t even know how to fix any of it.

So Jules didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

She just stood there, in the ambulance bay, watching Simone kiss Lucas—and thought about how Mika had kissed her too.

The bus ride to the retreat was too quiet.

Jules sat by the window, her head resting against the glass, watching the trees blur past like the world was moving faster than she could keep up with. She didn’t talk to anyone. Not Simone, not Lucas, not Blue. She kept her headphones in, even though she wasn’t playing any music—just using them as a barrier, a silent don’t talk to me sign.

Because what was she supposed to say?

It had been a week since Mika left—a week since that kiss in the locker room, since Mika's apology that didn’t explain anything, since Jules stood frozen in the ambulance bay watching Simone kiss Lucas like the world hadn’t just shifted beneath her feet.

She was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally—in a way she didn’t have words for. The kind of tired that made her want to crawl into bed and stay there, but instead, she was here—on a bus, headed to some forced team bonding retreat Dr. Bailey had arranged.

Wellness retreat. That’s what Bailey had called it.

Jules wasn’t sure how sitting in a circle and talking about their feelings was supposed to help her become a better surgeon—but apparently, that was the plan.

She could feel the others around her—Simone sitting stiffly a few rows ahead, Lucas sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, Blue making a half-hearted attempt to joke with the driver—but Jules didn’t engage.

Because how was she supposed to?

Simone was avoiding her. Lucas was pretending nothing had happened. Blue… well, Blue was Blue—still cracking jokes, still pretending like everything was fine.

And Mika wasn’t there.

That was the part that kept creeping in—the absence of Mika in the seat beside her, the space where she should’ve been, making some sarcastic comment about “wellness” and how it was a fancy word for making them talk about their feelings.

Jules swallowed hard and pressed her forehead harder against the window, hoping the cool glass might numb the ache in her chest.

When the bus finally pulled into the retreat—a small, quiet facility surrounded by trees and mountains, the kind of place meant to be "peaceful"—Jules felt the weight of Mika's absence even more.

She followed the others off the bus, standing just far enough away from Simone and Lucas that it wouldn’t be obvious, but not close enough to Blue either. She felt adrift—stuck somewhere between pretending to be fine and wanting to scream.

Dr. Bailey was already waiting for them at the entrance, her arms crossed, her face as serious as ever.

“Inside,” Bailey said, not bothering with small talk. “Let’s go.”

The room they gathered in was simple—a circle of chairs, a table with a pitcher of water and some glasses, a few inspirational quotes framed on the walls. Jules stared at the one that read, Healing begins when you open your heart.

She almost laughed.

They took their seats, a silence settling over them that felt heavier than it should have. Jules folded her arms over her chest, sinking into her chair, keeping her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor.

Blue broke the silence first. Of course he did.

“So,” he said, dragging out the word like he was already bored. “Why exactly are we here? Shouldn’t we be at the hospital—you know—saving lives?”

Dr. Bailey didn’t blink. “You’re here because you’ve been through a lot lately.”

Jules' stomach twisted.

Yeah, she thought bitterly. No kidding.

Bailey continued, her voice calm but firm—the way it always was when she was about to make a point none of them could argue with. “This isn’t just about you as individuals. It’s about you as a team. You need to learn how to work together, how to trust each other—because that’s what makes a great surgeon. Not just talent. Not just skill. But the people that are standing beside you.”

No one spoke.

Jules felt the words like a slap.

The people that are standing beside you.

Because Mika wasn’t standing beside her anymore.

She thought about the way Mika had left—how it wasn’t just sudden, but final. How Jules hadn't even had the chance to ask why, or to tell Mika that she didn’t have to carry her pain alone.

She thought about the patient’s girlfriend from last week—the way she'd said, He was a good guy, and then he just shut down.

Jules felt like she was watching the same thing happen—Mika, slipping away, shutting down, deciding that whatever pain she was carrying was something she had to deal with alone.

And Jules couldn’t stop it.

She didn’t get to stop it.

Because Mika had left without giving her a choice.

Jules blinked hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes.

“Any thoughts?” Bailey asked, looking around the circle.

Blue shifted in his seat. “I think we’re all fine.”

Bailey’s jaw tightened. “You’re not.”

Silence again.

Jules felt Simone glance at her, but she didn’t look back.

Because how was she supposed to sit here—talking about teamwork and trust—when the person she trusted most had walked away from her?

When Mika had chosen to leave rather than let Jules carry the weight of her grief alongside her?

The ache in Jules’ chest deepened.

She didn’t want to be here.

She wanted Mika.

She wanted answers.

She wanted to go back to that morning—before the locker room, before the kiss that felt too much like a goodbye, before Mika had decided that leaving was easier than staying.

But Jules wasn’t going to get any of that.

So she stayed silent.

She kept her arms crossed.

And she stared at the floor—pretending, just like Mika had, that the pain wasn’t tearing her apart from the inside out.

The silence sat heavy between them—a thick, suffocating thing—long after Dr. Bailey’s question hung in the air.

No one spoke.

Jules stared at the floor, arms still crossed over her chest, jaw tight enough to ache. She could feel the weight of everyone’s silence, the way Simone’s eyes kept flickering toward her, the way Blue shifted in his chair like he wanted to break the tension with some half-hearted joke but thought better of it.

And then Dr. Bailey spoke again.

“Team bonding and building is important,” she said, her voice calm but firm—always firm. “It’s not about sitting in a circle and talking about your feelings. It’s about learning to lean on each other. To trust each other. That’s what makes a great team.”

Jules' stomach twisted.

Bailey paused, then added, “You’ve all been through a lot lately. More than interns should have to go through. You watched your friend’s sister die. You watched Yasuda almost die.”

Jules' breath caught.

Mika.

Of course this was about Mika.

Of course Dr. Bailey was going to talk about her like this—like they were all still a unit, like Mika hadn’t walked out of the hospital and out of Jules’ life a week ago.

Bailey’s voice was softer now. “You weren’t just watching a patient die. You were watching your team’s grief. You were standing beside someone who was losing the most important person in their life.”

Jules’ jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

She wasn’t standing beside me, Jules wanted to scream. She left.

The words burnt inside her—a wild, furious ache.

Bailey scanned the room again. “I want more thoughts from you.”

And before Jules could stop herself, she scoffed.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

The sound broke the silence like a crack of thunder, too loud, too sharp.

And suddenly, everyone was looking at her.

Dr. Bailey’s gaze didn’t waver. “Seems like you have thoughts, Millin. Care to share?”

Jules’ heart pounded against her ribs.

She could feel the weight of their stares—Simone’s careful, unreadable expression, Lucas’ confusion, Blue’s quiet concern.

It felt like a pressure cooker inside her chest—all of the anger, the sadness, the betrayal—and it was too much. Too big.

So Jules let it snap.

“Team bonding?” She repeated, her voice tight, bitter. “It’s stupid. We’re nothing more than coworkers to each other.”

Dr. Bailey’s expression didn’t change, but Jules could feel the air shift around them—the tension growing thicker, heavier.

Jules’ voice shook, but she didn’t stop. “We don’t know each other. Not really. We go to work, we do what we’re told, and we go home.” She swallowed, the lump in her throat burning. “What’s the point in team bonding when we don’t even have a team?”

Silence.

It was louder than before.

Jules could feel their stares boring into her—heavier now, more intense.

Simone’s jaw was tight, Lucas’ brows knit together in concern, and even Blue—Blue—wasn’t smirking anymore.

The words had tumbled out of Jules too fast, too raw, too honest.

She felt the tears burning behind her eyes, threatening to spill over, but she blinked them back, refusing to break—not here, not in front of them, not in front of Bailey.

And then Lucas' voice broke the silence.

“You knew Mika, didn’t you?”

Jules froze.

Her heart lurched violently in her chest.

She didn’t respond—couldn’t respond—because if she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure if words or sobs would come out.

All of the anger inside her suddenly felt smaller—not gone, but hollowed out, like the sharp edges had dulled and left nothing but an aching, empty sadness in its place.

She could feel Lucas’ eyes on her, like he was trying to pull the words out of her, like he needed her to say something.

And then, again, softer this time—too gentle, too careful:

“Jules?”

That did it.

The sound of her name—quiet, concerned, like Lucas was trying to reach for her through the fog—made Jules' chest cave in.

She couldn’t do this.

Not here.

Not now.

Before anyone could say another word, Jules stood up—too fast, the chair scraping against the floor, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife—and walked out of the room.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t look back.

The air outside was cold, but Jules barely felt it.

She stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring out at the endless stretch of trees and sky like the answer to all of this might be hidden somewhere in the horizon.

Her heart was still racing—a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs—and she could still feel the heat of everyone's stares from the room she’d just left.

You knew Mika, didn’t you?

Lucas’ words echoed in her head, over and over, like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Because yes—of course she knew Mika.

She knew Mika’s ridiculous love for terrible reality TV, the way she always left her socks on the floor no matter how many times Jules told her to pick them up, and the way she hummed under her breath when she thought no one was listening.

She knew Mika’s laugh—that rare, soft one that only came out when she was truly happy—and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when Jules said something particularly stupid.

She knew Mika's grief, too—the hollow part of her that had never quite healed after Chloe died, the way she’d flinch at the mention of car accidents, the way she sometimes disappeared into herself without a word.

Jules knew Mika.

But it hadn’t mattered.

Because Mika had still left.

And now, standing here, with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing and the distant rustling of leaves, Jules felt like she might fall apart.

She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t cry—but the ache behind her eyes was relentless, a dull, familiar pain she refused to give into.

Crying wouldn’t change the fact that Mika was gone.

Crying wouldn’t bring her back.

And what hurt the most—what made Jules’ chest feel like it was being crushed—was the fact that Mika had left without letting Jules be there for her.

She hadn’t let Jules hold her hand through the grief. She hadn’t let Jules in far enough to share the weight of Chloe’s death or the pain she was still carrying.

Mika had kissed Jules and walked away, like it was easier to leave than to let herself be loved through the mess.

And Jules hated her for it.

No—that wasn’t true.

She didn’t hate Mika. She loved her—God, she loved her.

She just hated the way Mika shut her out. Hated the way she left Jules standing in the locker room, heartbroken, with no answers.

And now, she hated the way Lucas’ words—You knew Mika, didn’t you?—made it sound like Mika was already a memory.

Like she wasn’t coming back.

Jules sucked in a shaky breath, pressing her nails into her palms hard enough to sting, hoping the sharpness of it would pull her back into her body.

She couldn’t cry.

She wouldn’t.

Not here. Not now. Not for everyone to see.

But then she heard the soft creak of the door behind her.

Bailey didn’t speak right away.

Jules kept her gaze fixed on the trees, refusing to look at her.

She wasn’t sure what she expected—a lecture, maybe. A sharp reminder about professionalism or the importance of team-building.

But instead, Bailey’s voice was softer than Jules anticipated.

“This isn’t just about the team, is it?”

Jules’ jaw clenched.

Of course it wasn’t.

Bailey sighed—not out of frustration, but something quieter. Something closer to understanding.

And it made Jules’ chest ache even more.

“She left,” Jules said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mika. She just… left.”

It was the first time she’d said it out loud—the first time she’d allowed the words to break the silence Mika had left behind.

And it felt worse than Jules thought it would.

Bailey didn’t speak, didn’t push—she just let the words hang in the air. She moved closer—not too close, but enough that Jules could feel the steady weight of her presence. It wasn’t a demand, just an offer—a silent I’m here if you want to talk.

Jules’ throat felt tight again, but this time, she didn’t fight it.

Bailey's voice was softer than usual—the kind of softness that only came from someone who’d seen too much loss, too much heartbreak. “I care for my interns so deeply,” she said quietly. “Like they’re my own family. You are my work family.”

Jules’ chest ached.

“And I cared for Yasuda deeply,” Bailey continued, her voice steady but full of something else—a sadness Jules recognised all too well. “I want her to come back.”

Jules blinked hard, trying to keep the burning behind her eyes at bay.

Bailey wasn’t done. “She was an outstanding doctor. She cared for her patients—hell, she cared for everyone. She was a bright spot in that hospital, and she deserved more time to figure herself out. So I hope you know, Millin,” Bailey's voice softened even more, “I didn’t let her go like she meant nothing to me.”

Jules' stomach twisted.

Of course Bailey cared about Mika. Of course she did.

But that wasn’t what Jules had meant when she said it—you let her go like she meant nothing to you.

It had never been about Bailey.

Jules’ voice cracked when she finally spoke. “I know,” she whispered. “I wasn’t—that wasn’t aimed at you.” She shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I know I said it to you, but it was me. I was talking about me.”

Bailey didn’t say anything. She just waited.

Her next words were barely a whisper. “We weren’t just colleagues or friends. Mika and I.”

Bailey’s expression didn’t shift, but Jules could feel the shift in the air—a quiet understanding passing between them.

Jules blinked hard again, her chest tight. “We were more.”

It was the first time she’d said it out loud—we were more.

And God, it hurt more than she thought it would.

Because they were more—weren’t they?

They weren’t just the flirty banter in the break room, or the stolen glances during surgeries, or the casual brushes of hands when they thought no one was looking.

They were the late nights spent in the intern house, curled into each other like the world didn’t exist. They were the quiet mornings when Jules would wake up to find Mika already watching her, smiling like Jules was something she couldn’t believe was real.

They were the whispered “I love you” Jules had never actually said but had always felt—in every kiss, every touch, every moment they shared.

They were more.

And now Mika was gone.

Jules let out a shaky breath, her voice cracking. “She didn’t say why. She just… said she was sorry and walked away.”

Bailey’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think she didn’t care?”

Jules’ throat burnt. “I don’t know.”

Because she didn’t know.

Did Mika leave because Jules didn’t mean enough to her—because whatever they were wasn’t as real for Mika as it was for Jules?

Or did Mika leave because she was drowning in her own grief—because Chloe’s death was too heavy, too impossible, and Mika didn’t know how to let Jules carry the weight with her?

Jules didn’t have the answers.

She just had the silence Mika left behind.

Bailey’s voice was quiet but certain. “Yasuda cared.”

Jules' heart twisted violently.

She wanted to believe that—needed to believe it—but Mika wasn’t here to confirm it.

And it didn’t matter how many times Bailey said it or how deeply Jules wished it were true—because Mika still left.

So Jules just stood there, the cold air biting at her skin, her arms still wrapped around herself, and whispered:

“Then why wasn’t I enough to make her stay?”

Dr. Bailey didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, sure—the way it always was when she was telling a hard truth.

“I think you were the one reason she could have stayed.”

Jules’ heart lurched.

It was a cruel thing—hearing those words, knowing they were supposed to be comforting, but feeling like they were just another twist of the knife Mika had left behind.

Bailey didn’t stop. “I also think the pain of staying here, after everything she went through, was too much for her.”

Jules’ breathing hitched.

Because, of course, she knew that.

She knew Mika had been drowning—her sister died, she had almost died herself—and every corner of the hospital was a reminder of it. Every hallway, every OR, every patient they lost. It wasn’t just a job anymore—it was a graveyard.

And maybe Jules had been so wrapped up in her own pain, her own fear of losing Mika, that she hadn’t seen just how badly Mika needed to leave to survive.

Bailey’s voice softened. “You know that deep down, Millin. You do.”

Jules closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.

I know.

She did.

She knew Mika wasn’t heartless. She knew Mika hadn’t left because Jules didn’t matter. She knew it wasn’t about not caring.

It was about hurting too much.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

Because Mika had still left. She had still looked Jules in the eye—kissed her, apologised—and walked away.

And that meant something, didn’t it?

Didn’t it?

Jules' voice cracked when she finally spoke again. “It just feels like what we had never mattered. Maybe I’m selfish for saying that, but I can’t help but think it. Think about whether or not I mattered, I mean,” she laughs, bitterly. “Did I?”

Bailey didn’t answer right away.

Because there wasn’t an easy answer.

Finally, she said, “I don’t think Mika left because you didn’t matter to her. I think she left because you mattered too much.”

Jules squeezed her eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break her completely.

You mattered too much.

God.

That was almost worse.

Because if Jules did matter to Mika—if she was the one person who could’ve made Mika stay—then what did it say about the pain Mika was in that she still chose to leave?

How broken did Mika have to be to look at Jules, at everything they could have had, and still decide that running was the only option?

Jules' voice cracked again. “I would’ve helped her.”

“I know,” Bailey said softly. “And I think, somewhere deep down, Mika knew that too.”

Jules' breathing was uneven now—not quite sobbing, but on the edge of it, like every inhale might shatter into a sound she didn’t want Dr. Bailey to hear. She kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest, fingers digging into her ribs like if she just held herself hard enough, she could stop the ache spreading through her.

Because Dr. Bailey’s words weren’t a relief. They weren’t comforting.

They were unbearable.

Because Mika had known.

She’d known Jules would’ve helped her. She’d known Jules would’ve done anything—everything—to make the pain a little lighter, to carry it with her, to stand beside her in the wreckage of Chloe’s death.

And she still left.

The pain of staying—of being near Jules, of being near the hospital, of being near everything that reminded her of Chloe—had been too much.

And Jules hadn’t been enough.

Not enough to make Mika stay. Not enough to pull her back from the edge of whatever grief had swallowed her whole.

Jules sucked in a sharp breath, her throat burning with the effort of keeping everything in.

She felt raw—like she’d been stripped down to nothing, like all the armour she usually wore had been torn away, and now all that was left was the version of her that loved Mika too much to hold it all in.

And what made it worse—what made Jules want to scream—was that she couldn’t even be angry at Mika for leaving.

Because how could she blame her?

Mika had lost her sister.

She’d been in the same car accident that killed Chloe. She’d almost died too. She was left with the trauma of surviving something that took away the person she loved most in the world.

Jules knew all of this. She understood it. But it didn’t make Mika’s absence hurt any less. And it didn’t stop Jules from wanting to be the person Mika trusted enough to stay for.

The silence between her and Dr. Bailey hung heavy in the air—not awkward, but full. Like, there was still so much Jules wanted to say, but she didn’t have the words for it.

So she said the only thing she could.

“I loved her,” Jules whispered, her voice barely audible.

Bailey didn’t flinch. Didn’t react like it was news.

She just let the words sit there.

It was the first time Jules had said it out loud—not just that she cared about her or that we were more than friends, but the truth that had been clawing at her ribs since the moment Mika kissed her goodbye.

She loved Mika.

She still loved Mika.

And she didn’t know what to do with all that love now that Mika wasn’t here.

Jules' voice cracked again. “I didn’t tell her. I never told her.”

And now, she might never get the chance.

Because how did you tell someone you loved them when they were already gone?

“I think she knew.” Bailey says, calmly.

“She didn’t know,” Jules says, her voice shaky. “She didn’t know.”

Bailey didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort Jules in a way that felt patronising. She just stood there—present, solid—like she understood there was nothing she could say to fix this.

Because there wasn’t.

Mika was still gone.

Jules was still standing there, in the cold, with the weight of everything she hadn’t said—“I love you, I love you, please stay”—sitting heavy on her chest.

And there was nothing to do now but feel it.

Every last bit of it.

The air between them felt too heavy—thick with everything Jules couldn’t say, with all the words that were too big or too painful to drag out into the open. The only sound was the soft rustling of the trees and the uneven hitch of Jules’ breath as she tried—and failed—to pull herself together.

Dr. Bailey didn’t move. She didn’t offer an awkward pat on the shoulder or tell Jules to calm down. She just stood there—a steady, grounding presence—waiting for Jules to find the next word, the next breath, the next painful admission clawing its way up her throat.

And then, after a long beat of silence, Bailey spoke.

“Jules,” she said softly. “I know it hurts. I know Mika leaving feels like the hardest thing in the world right now.”

Jules closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to break again.

Because it was the hardest thing in the world—harder than she’d expected, harder than she thought a person leaving could ever be. Mika hadn’t just left the hospital. She’d left Jules.

Bailey’s voice stayed calm and steady. “But now… now is the time to focus on you. To fix you.”

Jules' eyes snapped open, her brow furrowing. “What does that mean?”

Bailey didn’t flinch. “It means you’ve been through your own trauma, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Jules blinked, her throat tightening all over again.

“That car accident,” Bailey continued, her voice never wavering, “you were there, Jules. You weren’t in the car, but you watched Mika code in the trauma room. You watched Chloe die. You stood there, and from what I’ve been told, you gave CPR even when time of death was called.” She paused, but not long enough for Jules to interrupt. “And that’s trauma.”

Jules' stomach twisted violently, and she shook her head—not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“You lost Chloe,” Bailey said gently, “and you almost lost Mika.”

Jules’ heart lurched.

Because it was true.

She hadn’t let herself think about it—not fully—but there had been a split second, in the chaos of that night, when she thought Mika might die too.

She remembered the way Mika looked that night—blood on her skin, dazed and broken—and how Jules had frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the person she loved and wonder if she was about to lose her too.

Jules hadn’t been in the accident, but she’d felt the aftershock of it like a punch to the gut.

And now… now Mika was gone in a different way.

Bailey gave her a moment—just long enough for the words to settle into Jules’ chest, for the ache to spread a little deeper—before speaking again.

“You may have trauma from that car accident,” Bailey said softly. “And you may have trauma from Mika leaving.”

Jules blinked hard, another tear slipping free.

Because yeah—maybe she did.

Bailey’s voice didn’t soften, but there was no harshness to it either. “Now you need to focus on that. On yourself.”

Jules swallowed hard, her voice hoarse. “And what if I can’t?”

“You can,” Bailey said simply. “Because you’re still here.”

Jules blinked at her, not sure how to respond.

Bailey let the words settle for a moment before adding, “And if Yasuda comes back—if she comes back—you’ll be ready to talk about what happened.”

If.

The word hit Jules harder than she expected.

Because it wasn’t when.

It wasn’t a promise.

It wasn’t when Mika came back.

It was if.

Because there was a very real chance Mika wouldn’t.

Jules' chest caved in at the thought.

And yet… there was something else underneath the ache—something quiet, something painful, but something true.

Bailey was right.

If Mika came back, Jules couldn’t meet her like this—not broken, not raw, not with her heart still cracked open and bleeding.

She had to be steady. She had to be okay.

Because if Mika walked through the hospital doors again, Jules needed to be strong enough to ask the hard questions—Why did you leave? Why didn’t you let me help you?—without falling apart at the answers.

And if Mika didn’t come back…

Jules had to learn how to live with that too.

Her voice shook when she finally spoke. “And what if she doesn’t?”

Bailey’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you’ll be okay anyway.”

Over a year later, Jules was still standing.

She wasn’t the same person she’d been when Mika left—raw and broken, standing in the cold with Dr. Bailey’s words echoing in her head. She wasn’t the girl who had almost collapsed under the weight of Mika’s absence, who had spent days pretending she was fine and nights staring at the empty side of her bed, wondering if Mika was thinking about her too.

Jules had done what Bailey told her to do.

She focused on herself.

It wasn’t easy—not even close.

The first few weeks were the hardest. The pain of Mika leaving wasn’t just a dull ache in the background of Jules’ life; it was all-consuming. It was waking up in the middle of the night and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. It was walking into the hospital every day and feeling the sharp, relentless sting of Mika’s absence in every corner of the place—the empty locker, the silence where Mika’s voice used to be, the weight of a missing presence Jules couldn’t seem to shake.

She tried to shove it down at first—to bury the grief and move on like it was something that could be packed away neatly, like a box of forgotten belongings. But it didn’t work.

So Jules let herself grieve.

She cried more than she thought she would—in her bedroom, in her car, sometimes in the locker room when she thought no one was watching. She let herself break down, letting herself feel the full force of what it meant to love someone who didn’t stay.

But she didn’t stop there.

Jules went to therapy. It wasn’t easy—talking about Mika, about the car accident, about the trauma Bailey had pointed out so clearly—but it was necessary.

She spoke about the way she felt helpless that night in the ER, watching Mika shatter over Chloe’s death and realising there was nothing she could do to fix it. She spoke about how Mika's pain had become a wall between them—how Jules had tried to break through, but Mika had already decided to lock the door.

She talked about the leaving. About the kiss. About the apology in the locker room that wasn’t an apology at all—just a goodbye Mika didn’t want to say out loud.

And somewhere in all of that—in the long, painful months of untangling Mika’s absence from her own sense of self—Jules found pieces of herself again.

She stopped waiting for Mika to come back.

She stopped waking up every day wondering if today would be the day Mika finally walked back through those hospital doors.

And she started focusing on her own life.

On the surgeries. On the patients. On becoming the kind of doctor she always wanted to be—not just a good one, but a great one.

Jules mended the fractures in her friendships too. She and Simone became best friends. Lucas didn’t walk on eggshells around her anymore. They worked together—side by side—without the awkward silences or hesitant glances. And Blue—well, Blue was still Blue. Loud and annoying and always there when Jules needed him.

But Mika’s absence never really went away.

Jules didn’t talk about her often—not because she didn’t want to, but because it still hurt more than she cared to admit. Even in therapy, it had taken months for Jules to say Mika’s name without her voice shaking. Because loving Mika wasn’t something Jules could just turn off. It wasn’t something she could pack away or forget—it was woven into the fabric of who she was, of who she had been for so long.

It started as a bad day—the kind that felt off from the moment Jules opened her eyes.

The sun was too bright when she woke up, stabbing through the gaps in her curtains like it was angry with her. She’d forgotten to set her alarm, so she was already running late. There was no time for coffee, no time to eat—just a frantic scramble into her clothes and a half-hearted attempt to fix her hair before she was out the door.

By the time she got to the hospital, Jules could already feel it—that simmering kind of irritation bubbling under her skin, the kind that made every noise too loud, every light too bright, every second feel heavier than the last.

And then the cases started piling up.

The first was a post-op patient whose stitches had torn open because he refused to rest like they told him to. The second was a teenager with a head injury whose mother wouldn’t stop hovering, snapping at every doctor who walked into the room—including Jules.

She took it, of course. She didn’t snap back. She let the mother yell, letting the stress of the day settle a little deeper into her bones.

Because the mother was scared.

And Jules understood that kind of fear—the way it could twist itself into anger, into blame.

She saw it in Mika, through the small cracks that showed.

And once Jules thought of Mika, she couldn’t stop.

She kept seeing her.

Not really—but in flashes, in glimpses of people who looked just enough like Mika to make Jules’ heart stutter for half a second before her brain caught up.

A nurse with short dark hair passed her in the hallway. A woman in the waiting room was laughing softly under her breath, the sound so familiar that Jules' chest ached. A doctor in scrubs, standing with their back to her, the height and posture so much like Mika’s that Jules’ body moved instinctively—a half-step forward before she realised the person wasn’t Mika.

Of course it wasn’t.

It never was.

But today—for some reason—Jules kept looking anyway.

Every time she rounded a corner, every time she heard a voice that hit a familiar note, every time a flash of dark hair caught the edge of her vision—she looked.

And it broke her a little more each time.

She hadn’t done this in months.

Jules had spent the last year pulling herself back together, piece by piece, breath by breath—untangling herself from the hope that Mika might walk through the hospital doors again.

But today? Today, she felt like that girl again—the one standing in the middle of the locker room as Mika kissed her goodbye, the one breaking apart on the steps of the wellness retreat while Dr. Bailey told her she needed to focus on herself.

Today, all she wanted was Mika.

Her touch, her voice—the simple, quiet way Mika used to slip her hand into Jules’ when she was overwhelmed or whisper, It’s okay. I’m here.

Jules hadn’t realised how much those words had anchored her—not until Mika wasn’t there to say them anymore.

And now? Now, Jules felt unmoored—like she was floating through the day without anything to hold onto.

She was exhausted by the time she made it back to the locker room, her shift finally over, the weight of the day pressing against her chest like a fist.

And as she sank onto the bench, head in her hands, all she could think about was Mika—the feel of her beside Jules on nights like this, the sound of her voice when she whispered soft reassurances, the smell of her shampoo still lingering on Jules’ pillow long after she’d left.

Jules squeezed her eyes shut, willing the ache to subside, but it didn’t.

Because today, no matter how much time had passed, all Jules needed was Mika.

And Mika wasn’t there.

She hadn’t been for a long time.

Jules was familiar with being alone.

She’d grown up with it—the hollow kind of solitude that wasn’t about being physically by yourself but about being surrounded by people who never really saw you. Her parents were lost in their own world of highs and crystals and whatever spiritual kick they were chasing at the time. Her brother was too busy being reckless, stupid, and annoyingly charming to notice that Jules was slipping through the cracks.

She’d learnt young that being part of a family didn’t mean you weren’t lonely.

Loneliness was something she had learnt to carry—something she had grown used to, like an old coat that didn’t quite fit but had been worn so many times that it had become familiar.

And then Mika happened.

Mika—with her chaotic energy and sharp wit, with the way she could make Jules roll her eyes and laugh at the same time. Mika, who had barged into Jules’ life like a hurricane, made it impossible for Jules to keep pretending she didn’t need anyone.

With Mika, being alone didn’t feel like an inevitability anymore.

Even in the quiet moments—the lazy mornings spent tangled in sheets, the soft hum of Mika cooking instant ramen at 2 a.m., the way Mika would link their pinkies together during long hospital shifts—Jules never felt lonely.

Because Mika had seen her.

And then Mika left.

And the loneliness came back.

At first, Jules had convinced herself she could handle it. She wasn’t new to being alone—it was an old, familiar ache, something she thought she had mastered years ago. But this time, it felt different.

Because once you knew what it felt like to have someone stay—to have someone who chose you—their absence wasn’t just a hollow feeling. It was a gaping wound.

Jules had her friends—Simone, Lucas, and Blue. And she had Max, her ridiculous, crazy comfort, on the nights when the apartment felt too empty.

She appreciated them in her own way—more than she ever let on.

But no matter how many people filled the spaces in her life, all she could think about was Mika.

Her mind wandered back to her too easily—Mika’s voice, Mika’s touch, the way she used to whisper, I’m here, when Jules didn’t even realise she needed to hear it.

And now, Mika wasn’t here.

She hadn’t been for over a year.

Jules was on her way home when her phone buzzed.

A text from Simone:

S: Come to Joe’s tonight. Drinks. Blue and Lucas are coming too.

Jules stared at the screen for a long moment.

She knew she should go—knew being around people, even the complicated mess that was her friend group, was probably better than going home and sitting in the dark with her thoughts.

But the idea of stepping into Joe’s—of being surrounded by noise and laughter and the easy banter of people who hadn’t left—felt impossible.

She wasn’t angry at them.

It wasn’t their fault they were still here while Mika wasn’t.

But right now, Jules needed something quieter—something lonelier.

So she typed back a quick Not tonight and shoved her phone in her pocket before she could change her mind.

Max was with her friends tonight—playing Bingo, of all things—which meant Jules would be going home to an empty apartment.

And that was okay.

She could handle being alone.

She always had.

The problem wasn’t being alone.

The problem was that she didn’t know how to stop wishing Mika was there with her.

And as Jules unlocked her apartment door and stepped into the quiet, she realised that some part of her still wasn’t used to the silence Mika left behind.

Maybe she never would be.

Jules didn’t plan on going through the old messages—not at first.

She was supposed to eat, drink a glass of wine, and maybe fall asleep on the couch with the TV playing something mindless in the background. That was the plan. Something simple.

But plans never really seemed to stick when it came to Mika.

The takeout bag sat open on the coffee table, the scent of pad thai filling the room, but Jules barely touched it. She had a half-full glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other—the screen glowing softly as she scrolled through old conversations.

It was a stupid idea.

So stupid.

She was making a bad day worse—pouring salt into a wound that hadn’t fully healed, no matter how much she liked to pretend it had.

But she couldn’t stop herself.

The messages weren’t anything monumental. They weren’t grand declarations of love—because there had never been any of that.

But they were something.

And tonight, that something hurt more than Jules thought it would.

She scrolled back through the endless thread of texts—months of banter, of late-night check-ins, of moments that felt light back then but felt too heavy now.

There was one from Mika from months before she left:

M:Are you saving lives or just standing there looking hot again?

Jules huffed a quiet laugh—more of a broken exhale than anything.

She remembered that day. It had been a slow afternoon in the ER, and Mika had sent the text from across the room, smirking at Jules over her phone like she was so pleased with herself.

J:Both. Duh.

Mika’s response came almost immediately:

M: Hot AND humble. You're the whole package.

Jules had rolled her eyes at the time, but she’d smiled too—the kind of smile you tried to hide, the kind that crept up even when you didn’t want it to.

She kept scrolling.

There was another—a late-night text, the kind that didn’t really mean anything but still made Jules' chest ache now.

M: You up?

It was timestamped 2:13 AM.

Jules had answered five minutes later:

J:Obviously.

M:Good. I was thinking about you.

Jules remembered staring at that message for a full minute before responding, trying to figure out if Mika meant it the way Jules wanted her to mean it.

In the end, all she’d sent back was:

J:What were you thinking?

Mika hadn’t answered for a while—so long that Jules thought maybe she’d fallen asleep or realised she’d said too much.

But then:

M:How annoying you are.

M:But also how you're kind of pretty when you're annoyed.

Jules hadn’t answered. She hadn’t known how.

She just remembered staring at her phone, heart racing, cheeks burning, rereading those words over and over again until her head hurt.

And now, over a year later, she was still staring at those same words—but the burn in her chest was different.

Colder.

Because Mika wasn’t here anymore.

Because they’d never crossed the line from something to everything.

Because Jules never got to say, I was thinking about you too.

The next message thread hit even harder:

J:I hate you.

M:No, you don’t.

J:I do.

M:Then why are you smiling right now?

Jules remembered that day, too—Mika had said something stupid, something that had made Jules roll her eyes so hard it hurt, but of course Mika had been watching her like she always did. Always noticing. Always knowing.

Jules set her phone down on the table with a little too much force, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes.

This was stupid.

Scrolling through these messages wasn’t going to bring Mika back.

It wasn’t going to change the fact that Mika left.

It wasn’t going to fix the ache that still gnawed at Jules’ chest, even after all this time.

But God—tonight, she just wanted Mika.

She wanted one of those texts at 2 AM. She wanted a snarky comment about how she looked in her scrubs. She wanted Mika’s name lighting up her phone—a reminder that, for a time, Mika was there.

And now she wasn’t.

So Jules sat there, wine forgotten, food untouched, staring at the last text Mika had ever sent her:

M:Come over.I miss you.

Jules didn’t know how long she sat there—the wine warming in the glass, the food going cold, her phone still open on the thread of old messages she should never have looked at.

Her vision blurred as she stared at Mika’s last text—“I miss you—over and over again, like maybe if she read it enough times, it would make sense.

But it didn’t.

Because Mika wasn’t here.

She hadn’t been for over a year.

And Jules was still sitting in the same apartment, feeling like she was stuck in the moment Mika kissed her in the locker room and walked away.

She didn’t realise she was crying until the knock came at the door.

Sharp. Sudden. Too loud in the quiet of the apartment.

Jules flinched, wiping her cheeks hastily, her heart still racing from the ache of the messages, from the spiral of what-ifs and maybes running through her head.

Another knock.

She exhaled shakily, standing, every muscle in her body tight with the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with Mika.

“If this is Simone, I swear to—”

She swung the door open, fully prepared to be met with Simone’s worried expression and a speech about how Jules needed to stop isolating herself.

But it wasn’t Simone. It wasn’t Blue. It wasn’t Lucas.

It was Mika.

Jules froze.

She blinked—once, twice—like maybe she’d finally lost it, like maybe all the hours spent thinking about Mika, all the times she thought she’d seen her in the hospital hallways, had finally broken something in her brain.

But Mika didn’t disappear.

She just stood there—solid and real and right in front of her—wearing a dark hoodie and a pair of old jeans, her hair a little longer than it used to be, her face more tired than Jules remembered.

“Hey, Jules,” Mika said softly.

Her voice was the same.

Raspy, a little rough around the edges, like she hadn’t spoken much today—or maybe in a long time.

Jules’ heart was a drum against her ribs.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Because Mika was here.

After over a year. After leaving. After everything.

Jules’ voice finally broke free—small and shaky and disbelieving.

“Mika?”

Mika’s lips pressed together in something too fragile to be a smile—an almost-smile, a sad one, a cautious one.

“Yeah,” Mika whispered. “It’s me.”

The silence between them was unbearable.

Jules didn’t know what to do with herself—didn’t know where to stand, didn’t know how to look at Mika without feeling like the air had been knocked out of her. She just stood there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze flickering between Mika and the phone sitting on the coffee table—still glowing, still open, still on their messages.

Mika’s arms were wrapped around herself—not in the casual way Jules remembered, the way Mika used to lounge on her couch like she owned the place, her legs draped over Jules’ lap like it was the most natural thing in the world—but in a way that looked small. Uncertain.

Jules hated it.

She hated that Mika looked like a stranger in a place that used to feel like home.

Mika’s eyes hadn’t left the phone.

Jules saw the moment she registered the last text—I miss you—saw the way her body stiffened, like reading her own words had pulled her right back into the moment she sent them.

The moment she left.

Mika’s voice broke the silence first—quiet, rough. “Were you—” She stopped and swallowed hard. “Were you reading those?”

Jules didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Because what was she supposed to say?

The truth was already there—glaring and undeniable. The screen was right in front of them, the words too loud even in the silence.

There was no point in lying.

“Yeah,” Jules finally said, her voice small. “I was.”

And for a second—just a second—Jules saw something flicker across Mika’s face.

Regret.

Pain.

Something else Jules couldn’t name.

The knot in her chest pulled tighter.

She should’ve been angry. She should’ve been demanding answers—Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me help you?—but instead, all she felt was…

Embarrassed.

Because what kind of person sat in the dark, drinking wine and rereading old texts from someone who left over a year ago?

Jules blinked hard, turned away from Mika—her jaw tight, her throat burning—and let the silence drag out a little too long.

She didn’t want to be seen like this—not by Mika.

Not broken.

Not stuck in the past.

Mika shifted behind her—Jules heard the faint rustle of her hoodie, the small shuffle of her feet—and then, softly:

“Thank you.”

Jules’ heart lurched at the words—at how careful Mika’s voice was, like she was afraid one wrong move might shatter everything.

Mika cleared her throat, her voice still quiet, still too gentle. “For letting me come in.”

Jules didn’t move.

“I know you’re probably… startled or confused or something,” Mika went on, her words halting, like she wasn’t sure what she was trying to say. “And that seeing me must’ve brought up a lot of—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Because Jules turned around—fast, too fast—and closed the distance between them before Mika could even react.

And then she was pulling Mika into her arms.

No hesitation. No words.

Just a hug—tight and desperate, like Jules was afraid Mika might disappear again if she didn’t hold on hard enough.

Mika froze—completely still for a long, painful beat—before her arms slowly unfolded from her sides.

And then she was hugging Jules back.

Jules didn’t miss the way Mika’s fingers clutched at the back of her shirt—how the hesitation melted into something equally desperate, like Mika had been waiting for this moment just as much as Jules had.

Jules’ chin rested easily on top of Mika’s head—because, of course, she was taller—and she squeezed her eyes shut, breathing in the familiar scent of Mika’s shampoo, the one thing that hadn’t seemed to change.

For the first time in over a year, Mika wasn’t a ghost in the corners of Jules’ mind.

She was here.

And Jules didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know what to feel.

All she knew was that letting go felt impossible.

So she didn’t.

Mika didn’t pull away.

Jules thought she might—thought this would be one of those brief, awkward moments where Mika would step back, shove her hands in her pockets, and crack a joke to break the tension. But she didn’t.

She stayed exactly where she was—arms tight around Jules’ waist, fingers curled into the back of her shirt like she was afraid Jules might slip away if she let go.

And Jules—God—Jules didn’t want her to let go.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t crying. She just hurt—the kind of ache that had lived quietly inside her for over a year, a constant, dull throb she’d gotten used to.

And now Mika was here, and the pain didn’t vanish—it just shifted, softening at the edges.

They stood there in the middle of Jules’ apartment, tangled up in the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but full—full of everything they weren’t saying, everything they hadn’t said, everything that still hung between them.

Jules’ chin rested against the top of Mika’s head, and for a long time, neither of them spoke.

Jules’ heart wasn’t racing anymore. It had settled into a steady rhythm—calm, but loud enough for her to feel every beat in her ribs.

Mika was here.

Not a memory. Not a ghost in the hospital hallways.

Real. Solid. Breathing.

And then, without meaning to, without thinking about how it might sound or what it might break, Jules whispered:

“I missed you.”

Mika’s entire body stilled against her.

Her fingers, still clutching the back of Jules’ shirt, tightened.

Jules felt it—the way Mika’s breath caught, the way she tensed for half a second before something inside her seemed to crumble.

She didn’t take the words back.

She couldn’t.

Because it was the truth—raw and quiet and too heavy for the moment but too real to hold in.

Jules had missed her—in every way a person could miss someone.

She missed the texts at 2 AM, the lazy mornings in Mika’s bed, and the way Mika would touch her pinky finger to Jules’ hand during long shifts like it was some secret only they knew.

She missed the sound of Mika’s laugh—the real one, not the sarcastic snort she gave everyone else, but the one that only Jules seemed to pull out of her.

She missed Mika.

Mika shifted in her arms, and Jules pulled back slightly—just enough to look at her, to really see her.

Her hair was longer now, curling at the ends like she hadn’t bothered to cut it. There was a faint scar along her chin—something new, something Jules didn’t recognise—and her eyes, those same dark brown eyes Jules used to get lost in, were tired. Older. Sadder.

But they were still Mika’s eyes.

Jules reached up without thinking, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from Mika’s face—a soft, familiar touch, too natural for how long it had been.

Mika didn’t pull away. She leaned into the touch.

The air felt a little less suffocating.

Jules’ voice cracked when she finally spoke again. “Are you okay?”

It wasn’t. Why did you leave? Or why now? —just a simple question that carried too much weight.

Mika’s lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

Jules waited.

And then, so quietly it almost broke Jules all over again, Mika whispered, “I don’t know.”

Jules’ chest ached.

That wasn’t the answer she wanted—wasn’t the answer that would make this easier—but it was honest.

And if there was one thing Jules had always loved about Mika, it was that honesty.

So instead of pressing, instead of asking for answers Mika clearly wasn’t ready to give, Jules just nodded softly, her thumb still resting gently against Mika’s cheek.

“That’s okay,” Jules murmured. “It’s okay.”

Jules didn’t know what she was doing.

Or maybe she did.

Maybe the second Mika walked through her door—the second Jules pulled her into that hug—there was only ever one place this was going to end.

Because it didn’t matter how much time had passed, didn’t matter how much Jules had tried to untangle herself from Mika’s ghost over the last year—she was here now, and that was all Jules could think about.

So without really meaning to, Jules reached down and took Mika’s hand—gently, fingers slipping between Mika’s like they belonged there—and gave a soft tug.

Mika didn’t ask where they were going. She just followed.

Jules led them into the bedroom, the air between them thick with a silence that wasn’t awkward—just full. Full of everything they hadn’t said, everything they still needed to say, and everything that didn’t need words at all.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp Jules had forgotten to turn off earlier. The bed was unmade—the way it always was when Jules had a rough day—and the sight of it made her throat tighten.

Because for the longest time, there had been nights when she lay in that bed, staring at the empty space beside her, wondering if Mika ever thought about coming back.

And now Mika was here, standing right in front of her.

“Bit forward, don’t you think?” Mika finally said, her voice soft but teasing. “Leading me straight to your bedroom?”

Jules let out a laugh—breathless and unexpected—and shook her head.

Of course Mika would find a way to make a joke right now.

But the sound of Jules’ laugh seemed to break something between them—seemed to loosen the knot of tension that had been coiled too tight since the second Mika knocked on the door.

And when Jules looked back at Mika, the smile slipped from her face.

Because Mika was looking at her—really looking at her—with that same unguarded, raw expression Jules hadn’t seen since before she left.

Like, Jules was everything.

Everything Mika had wanted.

Everything Mika had needed.

Everything Mika missed.

Jules felt it like a wave crashing into her chest—the intensity of it, the honesty of it.

It was the way Mika used to look at her when they were tangled in bed on quiet mornings, the way she used to stare a little too long when she thought Jules wasn’t paying attention during their shifts at the hospital.

It wasn’t just I want you.

It was I see you.

And Jules melted.

Because it was everything she had needed—a look that told her Mika wasn’t running right now, wasn’t shutting her out.

Mika wasn’t gone.

She was here.

Before Jules could register what she was doing, she stepped closer—so close that she could feel the soft brush of Mika’s hoodie against her shirt—and reached up, her fingers sliding under Mika’s chin.

She tilted Mika’s face up—slowly, carefully—and Mika didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Jules’ thumb brushed along Mika’s jaw, and for a long, quiet moment, they just stood there—faces inches apart, breath mingling, the tension crackling between them like static.

And then Mika’s voice—soft and broken and too honest—slipped into the space between them.

“I thought you would hate me, you know?”

Jules’ heart clenched, her thumb still gently stroking Mika’s jaw.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

Her voice was a whisper—steady but soft. “I could never hate you.”

Mika’s breath hitched—barely, but Jules felt it.

“You couldn’t?” Mika asked, her voice so small, so unsure—so unlike Mika—that it made Jules’ heart crack wide open.

Jules’ gaze flickered down—to Mika’s lips, to the way they parted just slightly with each shaky breath—before moving back to her eyes.

“No, Mika,” Jules said softly. “I couldn’t.”

Her hand was still under Mika’s chin—still keeping her close—and Jules wasn’t sure if it was Mika who leaned in first or if it was her.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Because suddenly, there was no more space between them.

Jules kissed her.

Soft at first—hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if this was allowed, if Mika would pull away again.

But Mika didn’t pull away.

She kissed Jules back—just as soft, just as careful—like she was afraid Jules might disappear too.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss they used to share—the ones filled with teasing smiles or easy, breathless laughter.

It was something else entirely—something raw and quiet, like they were both standing on fragile ground, too scared to move too fast, too scared to break whatever this was.

And when they finally pulled apart—just enough for their foreheads to rest against each other—Mika let out a shaky breath.

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

Jules didn’t let go of Mika’s hand.

Even when the kiss broke, even when the silence settled back into the room, she kept holding onto her—her thumb brushing softly over Mika’s knuckles like she was trying to memorise the shape of her hand again.

It felt fragile, this moment—delicate in a way that made Jules afraid to move too quickly, afraid to say the wrong thing. Like if she let go, Mika might slip away again.

But Mika didn’t pull back.

She just stood there, her forehead resting gently against Jules’, breathing slow and steady like she was trying to convince herself this was real—that they were real, still standing here, still something.

Jules swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you want to lie down?”

Mika blinked, like the question surprised her, but then a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—soft, a little shy.

“Yeah,” Mika murmured. “Yeah, okay.”

Jules didn’t say anything else. She just gave Mika’s hand a light squeeze and led her over to the bed—the same bed that had felt too big for too long, the same bed Jules had stared at for months, wishing Mika was there beside her.

They lay down slowly—careful, almost hesitant—and Jules didn’t let go of Mika’s hand even when they settled into the quiet, their bodies turned toward each other.

Mika’s fingers were still curled in Jules’, and her head rested on the pillow just inches away, close enough that Jules could count every dark eyelash, every faint freckle across Mika’s nose.

It wasn’t a rush of heat or frantic touches. It was just… soft. Still.

Jules' free hand rested between them, barely brushing Mika’s side, and Mika shifted slightly, her thumb lightly tracing circles against Jules’ wrist—like neither of them knew how to stop touching, like the physical distance between them was too much even with only a few inches of space.

For a long moment, they didn’t speak.

Jules’ heart wasn’t pounding like before—it was slower now, steady, but still a little too loud in her chest.

She took Mika in—the faint scar along her forehead, the way her hair was longer now and curled softly at the ends, the dark circles under her eyes that had been there the last time they lay like this.

“We should really talk about what happened, you know.”

Jules blinked.

She wasn’t surprised Mika said it—because of course she did. Mika never let things simmer for too long. She would crack a joke or shift the mood or—when things got too big, too heavy—just say what needed to be said, no matter how much it hurt.

Jules licked her lips, her fingers tightening just slightly in Mika’s hand. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Mika exhaled slowly. “I didn’t leave because of you.”

Jules felt her stomach twist—not in anger, not even in sadness, but in something else.

Because part of her had known that all along.

“But it felt like you did,” Jules admitted softly. “It felt like you left me.”

Mika’s thumb stopped moving against Jules’ wrist.

“I know,” Mika whispered. “I know it did.”

Jules’ chest ached.

She shifted on the bed, her hand still caught in Mika’s, and searched Mika’s face for something—for the answers Mika hadn’t given her back then.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jules asked, her voice cracking just slightly at the end. “Why didn’t you let me in?”

Mika’s eyes went glassy for a second—not quite tears, but close enough—and Jules felt her heart splinter all over again.

“Because I didn’t know how,” Mika said softly. “I was… drowning, Jules. After Chloe died—after the accident—I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was stuck in the moment she died, over and over again.”

Jules’ throat burnt.

And she realised—too late—that Mika had been grieving both of them.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” Mika whispered. “I didn’t want you to look at me and see someone broken.”

Jules’ voice broke. “I wouldn’t have.”

Mika’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But I didn’t believe that. I thought if I stayed—if I let you see how much I was falling apart—you’d stop looking at me the way you used to.”

Jules blinked back the sting behind her eyes. “The way I used to?”

Mika’s voice cracked just a little. “Like I was… something. Like I mattered to you.”

Jules didn’t hesitate.

“You did,” she said softly, the words a quiet promise. “You do.”

Mika closed her eyes for a second, and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Jules reached up—without thinking, without hesitation—and brushed it away with her thumb.

And Mika didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

She just leaned into Jules’ touch—like she was finally letting herself believe that Jules was still here.

Still hers.

And in the quiet, with their hands still intertwined between them, Jules whispered:

“I never stopped looking at you like that.”

Mika’s breath caught, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she blinked, her gaze fixed on Jules. It was as though the air had thickened around them, the weight of her words settling between them, but not in an uncomfortable way. No, it was a delicate weight, a truth that felt as soft as the touch of Mika’s hand on Jules’ skin.

Jules felt her chest tighten, her heart skipping a beat as she tried to meet Mika’s eyes, unsure of what kind of reaction she would get. But what she saw in Mika’s eyes was a mixture of surprise, tenderness, and something else—something more vulnerable, more raw than she’d ever seen before.

There was a long pause, and Jules could feel Mika’s eyes on her, her silence stretching out as she absorbed the words. Mika seemed to search her face for something, as though she was looking for confirmation, or perhaps trying to understand the depth of what Jules had just said.

Finally, Mika spoke, her voice small, almost as if she were testing the waters. "I... I’m so sorry. I know why I left. I understand that, and I get why you’d feel like you did. I get why you’d feel like I abandoned you in a way." She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around Jules’ hand as she fought to steady her emotions.

Jules let out a shaky breath, her heart heavy with the truth that was too complicated to put into words. "I get why you left too," she said, her voice raw. "I understand; I really do. It wasn’t just you, Mika. It was everything. You had so much to deal with... I never wanted to make it harder for you. But it still... hurt. I just kept thinking that if I had been there more, if I had been more, I could have been what you needed. But you were in so much pain, and I couldn’t fix that. I couldn’t even be there for you the way I wanted to."

She paused, the pain of that day still too fresh in her mind, even though it had been so long ago. "And then when I saw you... lying there in that bed, not knowing if you were going to wake up... it felt like my heart just stopped. You know that feeling, don’t you? When you’re waiting for something that you can’t control? And all I could do was wait—wait for you to wake up, wait for you to come back to me... and then you woke up, and you were so lost."

Jules took a shaky breath, blinking back the tears that had gathered in her eyes. "I’ve carried so much guilt about that, but I... I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Mika’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she listened to Jules, her own breath hitching at the confession. Her chest tightened, and she reached out, cupping Jules’ face gently, brushing her thumb over her cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who left. I was the one who... I just couldn’t stay. I couldn’t handle it, and I thought it was better for you. I didn’t want to drag you through the hurt, through the fear, through what I had to go through. I was just too broken to be the person I thought you needed."

Jules nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. She could see the pain in Mika’s eyes, and for a brief moment, she wished she could take it all away. Mika had been through so much—more than anyone should have to carry alone—and Jules had been carrying her own burdens too. But maybe, just maybe, they could share the weight now.

“I’m so sorry,” Mika whispered, her voice trembling as she lowered her gaze. “You have no idea how hard it was for me, Jules. When I was gone... everything felt like it was falling apart. I had to go through therapy, and I spent so much time thinking about what happened, about Chloe... about you. And when we talked, when we had those moments, it was like you were always there in my heart, even when I thought I couldn’t face it.”

Jules felt the tears that she had been holding back finally spill down her cheeks. She wasn’t ashamed of them. In this moment, with Mika’s confession, with the rawness of their love, it felt right to let them fall.

"I couldn’t drive again for so long, Jules. It took me months. I was scared... I was scared of losing control again, of something bad happening again. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw Chloe. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And then I started thinking about you and how much I wanted to come back to you, but I couldn’t let myself."

Mika’s voice wavered, and Jules pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her, holding her tightly as she let the sobs break free. Jules held her just as tightly, her own tears mixing with Mika’s as she kissed her forehead, the words catching in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Jules whispered, her voice gentle. “It’s okay, Mika. I’m right here. You don’t have to be scared anymore. We’re here, together. And we’ll be okay.”

Jules held onto her, not letting go. Her sobs quieted, but the tension in her body didn’t completely ease. It was as if she was still trying to let go of the grief she had carried with her all this time. And Jules just held her, her arms wrapped around Mika’s back, feeling every tremor of her body.

"I thought you'd react differently. More angry, or something," Mika said, her voice a mixture of vulnerability and wonder.

Jules smiled softly, though it was bittersweet. She ran her hand through Mika’s hair, her fingers gently tugging at the strands. "I did. I was angry for a while, a long while. And I was sad too. Today—today was a sad day. A really sad day and..." She let out a breath, her heart heavy with the weight of everything that had been said, everything that had been felt. "...all I wanted was you."

Mika's chest tightened; she pulled back and looked at Jules with wide eyes, as if trying to figure out what was happening in Jules’ mind. It was a quiet, loaded moment, as if they were both aware of how much they had been carrying and how much they had been avoiding, until now.

"You know," Jules continued, her voice a little shaky as she tried to find the words. "I would think about why it hurt so much. Because, technically, we weren’t even dating. We were just... something. But I would think about it, and then I finally realised why."

Mika tilted her head, the curiosity in her eyes undeniable. "And?" she asked, almost breathless, as if she were afraid of the answer, yet longing for it all the same.

Jules swallowed, her gaze dropping to their hands intertwined between them. She felt the weight of everything she'd been keeping inside, and now, with the words finally coming out, everything felt so raw, so real. She lifted her eyes to meet Mika’s, her heart pounding with the honesty that had been buried for so long.

"Because I love you," Jules said, the words coming out so naturally, so simply, yet carrying a depth that she hadn’t even known was in her. It was a confession that had been waiting for years, quietly simmering beneath the surface, and now it was out in the open.

Mika blinked, her breath catching in her throat as the weight of Jules’ words hit her. For a moment, there was just silence between them. The air was thick and electric, and it felt like the world had paused for this one moment. Neither of them moved, as if they were both trying to process the magnitude of what had just been said.

Jules couldn’t help but watch Mika’s face, her eyes searching for a response, for some indication that Mika had heard her, that she understood. But Mika didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, she leaned in slowly, her lips brushing against Jules’ in the softest, most tentative kiss. It was a kiss that carried all the weight of their shared history, all the longing and fear and hope that had been building between them for years.

When they pulled away, Mika’s eyes were shimmering, and Jules could see the flicker of emotion in them, the vulnerability that Mika rarely showed. "You love me?" Mika whispered, her voice trembling just slightly.

Jules nodded, her heart in her throat. "I do," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

Mika smiled softly, the most tender smile Jules had ever seen. "I love you too," she murmured, her voice barely audible, but it was enough. It was everything.

For a long time, they just stayed there, curled into each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist—like this small, quiet moment between them was the only thing keeping them tethered. Mika's fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on Jules’ arm, and Jules couldn’t help but lean into her touch, breathing Mika in, grounding herself in the soft scent of her shampoo, the steady beat of her heart.

It felt like a beginning. Not the rushed, chaotic kind—but something steady, something real. Like after everything—after five years of aching and waiting and hurting—they had finally stepped into the same rhythm.

Jules tilted her head slightly, her lips still brushing against Mika’s temple. “You okay?” she whispered, her voice a little rough from all the words they’d spilt between them.

Mika blinked up at her, like the question caught her off guard, like it was something she hadn’t stopped to ask herself. But then she smiled softly—small, but real—and nodded. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I’m okay.”

Jules’ thumb brushed over Mika’s cheek, a soft, lazy caress. “Are you sure?”

Mika leaned into the touch, closing her eyes for a beat. “I am,” she said, more certain this time. “I’m okay, Jules. Are you?”

Jules’ chest ached at the tenderness in Mika’s voice. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I am now.”

And she meant it. It didn’t erase the past—the hurt, the fear, the distance—but being here, right now, with Mika, hearing her say she loved her, it softened something inside her that had been locked away for too long.

Jules lingered for a moment, letting the weight of Mika’s words settle into her chest. Together. It felt good to hear it—to really hear it, not just hope for it like she used to. There was still a flicker of fear, yes, but there was also something steadier beneath it now—a promise.

After a beat, she shifted, pressing a small kiss to Mika's shoulder before slipping out of bed. "I’m getting water," she murmured softly, like the sound of her own voice might break the moment.

Mika hummed, her eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again, her hand loosely trailing down Jules’ arm as she moved away. Jules didn’t miss how Mika's fingers tightened for just a second—like she didn’t want to let her go—but then she let her slip away.

In the kitchen, Jules grabbed two glasses, filling them slowly, the sound of water trickling into the silence. She reached for her phone from the counter and, with a small sigh, slid it into her pocket before heading back into the bedroom.

Mika had shifted, sitting up against the headboard now, the sheets pooled around her waist. She blinked sleepily as Jules entered, her lips parting in the softest smile. “That was fast.”

Jules grinned, placing both glasses on the bedside table. “What can I say? I’m efficient.”

She tugged her phone from her pocket, quickly unlocking it—and immediately burst into a quiet laugh. “Oh my god.”

Mika's head tilted, her brows lifting. “What?”

Jules' thumb scrolled through the dozens of texts, the messages lighting up her screen like a chaotic confetti of hearts and exclamation marks. “I have a billion texts from Simone,” she said between small, breathless laughs. “Telling me she loves me, and that she loves Lucas, and that she wants to marry him, but— and I quote—‘If you ever want to get married, Jules, I will dump Lucas so fast and marry you instead.’”

Mika snorted. “Of course she said that.”

Jules grinned, scrolling a little more. “Oh, wait—she also said, ‘You’d be so lucky, Millin. I’m an amazing catch.’”

Mika chuckled softly, shaking her head. “She’s unhinged.”

Jules didn’t reply right away—instead, she angled her phone toward Mika, the soft glow of the screen illuminating the slight pink creeping up Mika’s cheeks. Before Mika could question it, Jules quickly snapped a picture of her—her hair slightly messy, the sheets still tangled around her, and that soft, sleepy look still lingering in her eyes.

Mika blinked. “Jules.”

But Jules was already typing, her thumbs flying over the screen.

J:Sorry, Simone. Love you too, but I think I might want to marry someone else.

She hit send before Mika could grab the phone. “There. Problem solved.”

Mika stared at her for a second, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. “Oh? Might want to marry someone else?”

Jules slipped her phone onto the nightstand and slid back into bed beside Mika, their legs brushing beneath the sheets. She leaned into Mika’s shoulder, her head resting there for a moment, before slowly reaching down to take Mika's hand in hers.

The joke settled into something quieter—something heavier—as Jules stared down at their joined hands, her thumb softly tracing the lines of Mika's palm.

Then, softly, Jules asked, “You’re not going to leave again… are you?”

Her voice wasn’t accusing, just small—a whispered question that carried the weight of everything they’d said that night. Of everything they hadn’t said for years.

Mika didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said gently, her thumb moving over Jules’ knuckles, slow and reassuring. “Jules… I’m not going to leave again.”

Jules blinked down at their hands, her throat tight. “Promise?”

Mika shifted closer, her hand slipping from Jules’ to softly brush a strand of hair from her face. Her touch was feather-light, like she knew exactly how fragile this moment was—how raw they both still were. “I promise,” Mika whispered. “We’ll be here for each other.”

Jules swallowed. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Mika’s hand lingered against Jules’ cheek, her thumb brushing along her jaw. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy anymore—it was soft, full of everything they didn’t have to say because it was just there.

Then, Mika’s gaze flickered down, landing on Jules’ lips—and the breath between them seemed to shift.

Jules’ heart stuttered as Mika leaned in a little closer, her voice quieter now, more careful. “Can I?”

Jules didn’t speak—she just nodded.

The air between them thickened, charged with so much unspoken weight that it felt like time itself had stopped. The moment was all-encompassing, full of years of longing, pain, healing, and something much deeper. The warmth of Mika’s lips on hers, so familiar and yet somehow new, left Jules breathless, but it wasn’t just the kiss that made her heart race. It was the quiet honesty that followed—the things they were finally able to say.

Mika pulled back just slightly, her forehead resting against Jules’. Her breath came shallow, almost like she was unsure of how to move forward, but she didn’t pull away completely. Instead, she whispered, her voice soft but full of conviction: "I know I hurt you. I should've left differently, or... I don't know, maybe not at all."

Jules felt the words settle deep in her chest. It wasn’t a question or a plea. It wasn’t even an apology in the way she expected, but there was so much truth in those words, so much regret. And it made Jules’ heart ache in a way she hadn’t expected, like it was finally allowing itself to feel all the things it had been holding back for years.

Mika took a shaky breath before continuing, her fingers gently tracing the line of Jules' jaw. "We have a lot to figure out; we can both agree. But I really want you, Jules. I don't think I ever stopped."

Jules felt like her chest was going to explode from how full it suddenly was. Those words—they broke through everything, through the years of not knowing, of wanting and being afraid, of holding back to protect themselves. She’d never really doubted it, but hearing it, hearing Mika say it so clearly, so openly… it was like a dam had broken inside her. She closed her eyes for a moment, the emotion threatening to overtake her.

She didn’t have to say much. The truth of it all was there in her gaze, in the way her hand moved to cup Mika’s face, pulling her in closer again, just to feel the proximity of the woman she loved.

"I want you too," Jules said, her voice thick with the weight of the words. There was a tenderness to it, raw and vulnerable, but there was also a strength—the kind that came with knowing they had both been through something that couldn’t be undone but had only made them more determined to be together.

The air between them was still, their breaths slow and measured. But something had shifted. Something had healed, or at least begun to heal. They didn’t have all the answers. They didn’t have to. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. The space between them was filled with everything they needed to be okay. They could work through it together.

Mika smiled softly, the kind of smile that made Jules' chest ache. She was still bruised by the past, still working through everything that had happened, but in this quiet, sacred space with Jules, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

Jules pressed a gentle kiss to Mika’s forehead, just as soft as the one Mika had given her earlier. "We’ll figure it out," Jules whispered. "Together."

Mika nodded, closing her eyes for a second as she let the words sink in. "Yeah," she whispered back. "Together."