Three days ago, the email had stared back at her from the corner of her screen, quiet and patient, like it had every right to wait.
Subject: Intern Retreat Invitation
From: Dr Miranda Bailey
Mika had almost laughed. As if any part of her still belonged in that world. As if she could walk back in like nothing had changed—like she hadn’t ghosted every single person who’d once called her a friend.
Her cursor hovered over the trash icon for a solid minute. Delete it. Pretend it never arrived. Easy.
But it wasn’t.
That tiny line of text—it didn’t just belong to Dr Bailey. It was a direct threat to something she hadn’t let herself feel in weeks. A version of herself who stayed late in the skills lab, cracked jokes in the on-call room, and stood in operating rooms with her heart pounding and hands steady. A version who, once, had a place beside Jules Millin.
So much of her wanted to ignore it. She didn’t owe anyone anything, not anymore. But that was a lie she kept trying to swallow without choking.
In reality, she owed them more than she could ever say.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t deleted it. Not yet. Not even now.
Maybe this retreat wasn’t an invitation to return. Maybe it was her one chance to leave the right way.
Because leaving hadn’t been a choice she’d made lightly. It had been necessary. Life had closed in around her, sharp and suffocating, and Mika had known she couldn’t carry it all—the grief, the pressure, and the responsibility of being the person everyone expected.
She’d told herself that disappearing quietly was easier for everyone. Cleaner.
But “clean” didn’t feel like this.
It didn’t feel like waking up every morning with the weight of unfinished conversations pressing against her ribs. It didn’t feel like rerunning the last moment she saw Jules over and over until her mind blurred the edges just enough to pretend they hadn’t been looking at each other. Really looking.
It didn’t feel like this constant ache to explain.
So maybe showing up wasn’t about rekindling anything. Not friendships. Not relationships. Definitely not what she and Jules had, or didn’t have, or almost had.
It was about standing in the same room as them, just once more, and saying with her presence, I didn’t forget you. I didn’t stop caring. I just couldn’t stay.
Maybe that was enough.
And if she got the chance—if there was a quiet moment in the middle of whatever group therapy exercise Dr Bailey had planned—she might even look Jules in the eye and say it out loud. Or try.
Of course, there was a risk.
Because showing up meant letting them see how much she hadn’t moved on. How her voice still caught when she thought about the on-call room where Jules used to lie curled beside her, pretending not to reach for her hand. How her fingers still brushed her own wrist like she was checking for a pulse that belonged to someone else.
They’d see all of it.
And Jules… Jules might look at her and feel nothing. Or worse, feel something but choose not to show it.
Mika had prepared for that possibility, too. It was the only way she could do this.
This wasn’t about rekindling anything. She repeated that to herself like a chant, even as her bag sat half-packed on her bedroom floor.
It was a goodbye. A real one, this time.
Knocking wasn’t easy. But she did it—three quick raps against the wooden door before her nerves could get the better of her.
It opened within seconds.
“Hey,” she said softly, offering Dr Bailey a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Am I still welcome here?”
Miranda didn’t hesitate. “Of course you are.”
A wave of relief passed over Mika’s chest, but it didn’t settle. Not really.
Bailey stepped aside, letting her enter. “I didn’t mention anything to the others about you taking part. That’s not my place. Besides…” She closed the door with a firm click. “There’s enough tension around here as it is.”
That made Mika pause, her hand tightening on her strap. “What do you mean?” she asked, voice careful. “Is it a good idea for me to be here at all?”
“You came here to do something—whatever that is,” Bailey said with a tired shrug. “So yes, you should be here. And the tension? It’s not about you. Far as I can tell, anyway. Something’s up with Griffith and Millin. Or maybe it’s Millin and the whole group.”
A sharp breath left Bailey’s mouth. “I don’t know. I’m just now getting looped into the drama. Come on—let’s get you caught up.”
Before Mika could respond, Bailey was already leading the way, her no-nonsense pace familiar in a way that tugged at something in Mika’s chest.
Lucas turned first.
“Yasuda?” His voice broke through the low hum of voices. “What are you doing here?”
He was already halfway across the room before she could answer, arms open.
Mika let herself be pulled into the hug, even though her shoulders stiffened. She hadn’t known how much she missed the solid warmth of her friend until it was wrapped around her again.
“Bailey invited me,” she said as they separated, eyes flicking nervously to the others.
Blue was next. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
The kindness in his eyes almost undid her. She opened her mouth to answer, but Simone spoke first.
“Are you staying this time?” Her tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sharp. It was just honest. Exhausted. And maybe—just maybe—wary.
That question landed like a stone in the centre of the room.
For the first time, Mika let herself glance in Jules’ direction. She was seated on the arm of the couch, spine rigid, fingers laced tightly in her lap. But her head snapped up the moment Simone asked the question.
And Jules was looking right at her.
“I don’t know if I’m okay,” Mika said at last, voice even. “And as for staying…”
The pause was deliberate. Heavy.
Her eyes flicked from Jules to Dr Bailey, a silent plea in her gaze: Can we not do this here? Not like this?
Bailey caught it instantly. “Alright,” she said, clapping her hands once. “That’s enough for now. Questions and conversations later. Time to move into the next exercise.”
No one argued. Not out loud.
Jules, however, didn’t move. Her eyes lingered on Mika for a fraction of a second too long before she looked away, jaw tight.
Mika let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and followed the group into the adjoining room.
The exercise setup looked simple—five chairs in a circle, a whiteboard behind them with a single word written across it: Conflict.
Dr Bailey stood beside it, arms folded. “You all know the drill. Internal conflict, external conflict. Doesn't matter. Pick one. Talk about it.”
The air in the room felt still, like it was holding its breath alongside them. Five chairs. One word on the board. Conflict.
It was Simone who finally broke it.
Her posture was composed, but her hands trembled slightly as they rested in her lap. “I’ll go,” she said, lifting her chin. “There’s something I’ve been holding onto.”
The rest of the group didn’t move, but every gaze subtly shifted toward Jules.
Simone’s voice didn’t waver. “A few weeks ago, a patient fell off of the OR table. Altman was so mad. And she kept looking at me like I was the one who did it." She continued. "But it wasn't me. It was Millin. And I took the blame for her."
Lucas shifted uncomfortably in his chair but still said nothing.
Blue looked from Jules to Simone and back again, like his eyes couldn’t settle anywhere.
“And I didn’t mind,” Simone continued. “Not at first. It was instinct. We’ve all covered for each other. I get it. But I thought maybe… maybe later, she’d say thank you. Or sorry. Or anything.”
Her eyes burnt, but her voice remained even.
“I never got that.”
Jules sat rigid, face unreadable, but her throat moved in a slow swallow.
Mika blinked, lips parting before she could think better of it. “She wouldn’t do that on purpose,” she said gently. “You know that, right?”
Simone turned, her expression shifting.
“You weren’t there,” she replied, sharp but not cruel—just matter-of-fact.
“I know that,” Mika answered, holding her gaze. “I just mean – she’s our friend, Simone. She wouldn’t hurt you intentionally. That’s not her.”
A faint scoff escaped Simone’s mouth, but it lacked venom. “According to Jules”, she said, tilting her head toward her, “we’re just coworkers. We don’t know each other.”
That hit its mark.
Jules flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her mouth pressed into a flat line, eyes narrowing ever so slightly at Simone like she hadn’t expected that to be brought up—like it was something said in passing that wasn’t meant to stick.
But it had.
Simone leaned back, folding her arms. “You said that, didn’t you?” she asked, not with malice, but with exhaustion. “That we don’t really know you.”
The room waited.
Jules didn’t answer immediately. Her jaw clenched, and her fingers tapped once against her thigh. “That’s not what this is about,” she said finally, quietly.
“No?” Simone countered. “Because I think it is.”
A pause followed—short, but taut.
“I get that you were mad”, Simone continued, “or upset, or whatever, when Mika left. I don’t know the details. But I wasn’t the one who walked away. I didn’t deserve the cold shoulder after that OR.”
“That’s not fair,” Jules said, voice rising slightly. “You have no idea what I was dealing with.”
“Then tell me,” Simone said, eyes glinting with something brittle. “Tell me why you let me take the fall and never said a word.”
Jules looked like she wanted to—like there were a hundred words trying to crawl out of her mouth, but none of them could form fast enough.
Her gaze flicked, without meaning to, toward Mika. And that was enough to send Simone forward.
“I know it was about Mika,” she said. “That whole week, you were a ghost. You didn’t talk to anyone. You shut us out. I get that you were hurt, but—”
“That wasn’t what—” Jules started, then stopped. Her breath caught on the words. “This isn’t—God, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her voice didn’t crack, but it came close.
Simone didn’t push further. She didn’t have to. The silence after that was heavier than before.
Mika stared at the floor. Her ears buzzed. She hadn’t meant to become a wedge in any of this. But the way their voices shifted, the way their words kept orbiting her absence even when it wasn’t the subject—it was clear. Her silence had left a bigger hole than she thought.
Jules, stood then, shaking her head once. “This is a waste of time,” she muttered, walking away from the circle.
Bailey’s voice finally cut in. “You walk out now, you miss your turn.”
Jules, still standing, let out a slow exhale—somewhere between exasperation and restraint. “You want to know what I think?”
Her voice cracked just slightly, but she didn’t stop.
“We lost a classmate,” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward Mika without turning her head. “Yasuda dropped out of the program. And then everyone just… acted like nothing changed.”
Simone’s brows drew together, but she didn’t interrupt.
Jules pointed sharply, first at Simone, then at Lucas. “These two are making out all over the place. Blue’s constantly texting his ex or his girlfriend or whatever... she is and—” Her eyes found Bailey’s, full of heat and something desperate. “You’re only doing this to protect yourself. In case one of us flames out or kills someone in the OR again.”
Bailey didn’t flinch. She held Jules’ gaze like she’d seen this before—because she had.
“What’s the point?” Jules asked, voice suddenly smaller, thinner. “What is the point of all this bonding and trust and teamwork if we don’t have a team? Our team is broken.”
Her hands trembled at her sides. “I’m sorry.”
Then she turned, walked out, and closed the door behind her without another word.
Silence settled again, this time heavier.
Bailey was the first to move. She stepped to the whiteboard, took the marker eraser in hand, and swiped the word Conflict off with one clean motion.
“Well”, she said, tone dry but not unkind, “that’s one way to have a breakthrough.”
It was Mika who broke the quiet this time. Her voice came out smaller than she expected. “Is that true?” she asked. “Everyone just… moved on like nothing happened?”
Across the circle, Lucas lifted his eyes. “No,” he said without hesitation. “A lot changed. We just figured you had a good reason. You were grieving. Still are.”
Blue gave a nod, the kind that said he hadn’t stopped wondering. “We understood that,” he added softly.
“But Jules didn’t,” Simone said, not unkindly, just honestly. “Not like we did.”
That landed like a pin dropped in a quiet room.
“She was closer to you than any of us,” Simone went on. “More than those two know anyway.”
Lucas blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
All eyes turned toward Mika.
Her heart stuttered once, then resumed its rhythm in a strange, lopsided beat. She could feel their expectation settle on her shoulders.
“Uh,” she said, half-laughing without humour. “Right. Guess there’s no subtle way to say it.”
They waited.
“We were kind of… dating,” she admitted, voice rough around the edges. “Me and Jules.”
Blue let out a soft “oh”, while Lucas looked surprised, though not in a judgemental way—more like someone finally seeing the missing puzzle piece click into place.
From beside her, Bailey let out a short breath. “That’s my cue,” she murmured, already moving toward the door. “I’ll go check on her.”
No one stopped her.
Mika watched the door swing gently shut behind Bailey, her pulse still stammering in her chest. It wasn’t that she regretted saying it—she didn’t. But it felt surreal, hearing the truth spoken aloud in this space, in this company.
“I didn’t think anyone knew,” she said, still a little stunned by herself. “Only Dr Shepherd. That was... kind of the point. To keep it quiet. Private. Ours.”
Simone’s voice came next, steady but soft. “Jules told me,” she said. “After your accident. When we thought you might not…”
She didn't need to finish the sentence. Everyone knew what she meant.
The air in the room held its breath, and there was a brief, suspended silence before Lucas spoke again, his curiosity evident. “How long were you two...?” His voice trailed off, but the question was clear.
Mika blinked, pulling her thoughts together as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She could feel the sharp ache in her chest, the weight of everything she hadn’t said and had to say now. “Months”, she answered quietly. “And things were… so good. But then Chloe got cancer, and I needed to be there for her. I didn’t know how to balance it all. And then I realised…” She swallowed, trying to steady herself. “I missed Jules. So much. So I told her. Then…”
“Then the accident happened,” Lucas finished for her, his tone solemn. "And everything changed."
“Yeah,” Mika whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I wanted her. She wanted me, too. She told me we’d figure it out together.” Her voice caught as she exhaled sharply. “But I left anyway. In such a horrible way, too.”
Blue’s brows furrowed in concern. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quiet, a mixture of curiosity and understanding.
Mika took a long breath, holding it for a moment before speaking again. “I just… told her I was sorry, kissed her, and left. I didn’t really say goodbye. Not really. Not the way it should’ve been.”
The words felt like they were leaving a mark on her, each one heavy with regret. She didn’t know why it was easier to admit it to them now, here, after everything, but it was.
“Is that what today is for?” Lucas asked, his voice more tentative now. “To say goodbye?”
Mika didn’t respond immediately. Her hands tightened in her lap, her fingers twisting nervously. She wasn’t sure how to answer, not fully. It wasn’t just about Jules, not anymore. Her gaze fell to the ground, and the words slipped out softly, barely above a whisper. “Yeah,” she said. “I never said goodbye to you guys, either. I just left. No texts, no calls, nothing. I thought I owed that to you three too, not just Jules.”
“But, god, you guys can’t keep blaming her for not giving you an apology,” Mika said, her voice shaking but firm. “Or for what happened in the OR. It's evident she's going through something. I left, okay? You already lost one friend. Did you want to lose Jules too?”
Her words hit the silence like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward.
“Maybe she was going to apologise, and something stopped her,” she went on, quieter now. “Maybe she just needed… time. To process things. There are a lot of explanations. You can’t just hold her to that one moment and decide who she is now. You know what she was like when we all met her. She was guarded. She’s just going back to that.”
“I know,” Simone said eventually, her voice low and tired. “I know. But I could’ve been benched. I took the fall for her.”
“You didn’t have to,” Mika said gently. “You didn’t have to.”
Simone looked down, fingers tightening around the fabric of her sleeve.
“You need to talk to her,” Mika added, the edge of a plea in her voice. “In a real, civil way. She’s going to need a friend. You all are. You’re going to be stuck with each other for the next however many years. And…” she hesitated, forcing herself to say it again, “I’m not going to be here.”
No one interrupted her this time.
“You need each other,” she said again, softer now. “That’s what this team bonding crap is about. Not the dumb chairs or the whiteboard or Bailey trying to act like this is still Grey-Sloan when nothing bad happened. If nothing bad happened. It’s about surviving this. Together. That's what you all need to do.”
A breath caught in her chest before she added, “And I need to grieve.”
At that, the door creaked open behind them, and Dr Bailey returned, expression unreadable but voice firm. “I think it’s best we call this a night,” she said, addressing the room at large. “We had somewhat of a breakthrough, but whatever’s going on here… it’s out of my hands. This isn’t about being better doctors anymore. It’s personal. And that’s something you all need to work through yourselves.”
Blue moved first, standing and stretching his legs. Lucas followed a beat later, quiet but present. Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Blue turned to Mika. “It was good seeing you. Really,” he said. “I mean that.”
Lucas stepped forward next, hesitating before offering her a small, sincere smile. “Keep in touch, okay? You’re still part of this. If you ever want to come by the house… you’re always welcome.”
She nodded, throat tight. “Thank you. I mean it.”
Lucas glanced toward the hallway. “Could you tell Simone I’m waiting outside?”
“I will,” Mika promised.
With that, Blue and Lucas slipped out, their footsteps fading into the quiet. The weight of the room shifted again. It was emptier now, but no less heavy.
Mika stayed still, standing beside Bailey, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“Is she okay?” she asked, keeping her voice just above a whisper.
Bailey’s eyes were kind but tired. “She’s hurting,” she said. “Angry. Frustrated. All the things you’d expect. But that’s something you need to talk about with her, not me.”
Mika managed a small smile of gratitude. “Right. Yeah. I know.”
Without another word, she turned and made her way toward the kitchen. Her hand hesitated on the door for a brief second before she knocked—lightly, once—and then pushed it open.
Inside, Simone and Jules were seated at the far end of the table, mid-conversation. Or maybe the tail end of one. They stopped the moment Mika entered. Jules quickly looked away, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm, not fast enough to hide the red rim around them.
Mika’s breath caught. Something about seeing Jules like that—unguarded, soft around the edges in pain—twisted something sharp in her stomach. She hadn’t come here to hurt her. She never wanted that.
Simone stood up first. She looked at Jules for a moment longer before walking over to Mika.
“You’re more than welcome to come over for wine,” Simone offered gently. “Or… whatever you fancy.”
That small attempt at levity cracked Mika’s heart wide open. She didn’t smile, not really. But she let herself breathe.
Simone pulled her into a hug without waiting for permission, wrapping her arms tightly around Mika’s shoulders. It was warm. It was unexpected. It was everything.
“Take care of yourself, will you?” Simone whispered. “We all care about you.”
A pause. Then—
“We all love you.”
The words punched something loose in Mika’s chest.
“I will,” she said, voice barely audible. “And… Lucas is waiting for you outside.”
Simone nodded, giving Jules a soft parting glance before heading toward the hallway. “Don’t run away this time,” she added over her shoulder.
And then it was just the two of them.
Mika didn’t move. Her fingers stayed clenched in her sleeves. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Words scrambled at the base of her throat, messy and half-formed. Nothing felt right.
She looked at Jules, really looked, and her heart felt like it was on the outside of her body.
Jules was hunched slightly in her seat, as if the conversation had folded her inward. Her hair was falling around her face in loose pieces, and her arms were crossed tightly across her chest like she was holding herself together.
Everything about her looked fragile in a way Mika had never seen before. Not even after the accident. Not even after the first time Mika ended things with her.
Mika took a cautious step forward, then stopped.
“I didn’t expect to see you cry tonight,” she said quietly, unsure why that was the sentence that came out first. “But maybe I should’ve.”
Jules didn’t respond. Not right away. Just kept her gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched.
Mika folded her arms, grounding herself. “Simone said you told her about us. After the accident.”
A slight nod. Nothing more.
“I didn’t think you’d tell anyone,” Mika admitted.
Jules finally looked up at her, eyes red and tired. “Yeah, well,” she said, her voice flat, “I thought you were going to die. Kind of changes your priorities.”
That was like a gut punch to Mika. The kind that sucked all the air out of her lungs without warning. She swallowed hard, guilt lodging itself at the base of her throat like a stone.
"Can we talk about things?" she asked, voice softer now, stripped of pretence. "Maybe I could walk you home or... something.”
Across from her, Jules didn’t move. The pause stretched long and uncertain. Then Mika caught it—that flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the quiet resistance. So she backtracked, fast.
"Or not. I’m not pressuring you or anything. I just—"
“Okay,” Jules said, cutting her off. It wasn’t warm or encouraging, but it wasn’t a no either.
That small word was enough. They made their way out together, pausing only when they saw Dr Bailey waiting near the entryway with her arms crossed but her face softer than usual.
“We’re heading out,” Mika said, offering a half-smile. “Thank you. For inviting me. Maybe… maybe one day I’ll be back. To learn from you again.”
Bailey gave her a long look—one that weighed the pain, the promise, and everything in between. “There’s always a place for you at Grey Sloan,” she replied. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Mika nodded. That meant more than she could say.
They walked in silence for the first few minutes, their steps crunching against the gravel of the path that curved around the backyard and then led into a trail behind the house. It was too dark to really see each other, which somehow made everything easier and harder all at once.
Jules broke the silence first.
“Simone said you defended me. After I walked out.”
Mika kept her gaze ahead. “Yeah. She told me.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Mika said simply. “You were just hurting. And people make mistakes when they’re hurting. You’re allowed to.”
There was a pause. The leaves whispered above them.
“Is that what you did?” Jules asked. “Made a mistake because you were hurting?”
That stopped Mika mid-step. She turned slightly toward Jules. “Is this about the way I left?”
A small nod was her answer.
“The way I left was a mistake,” Mika admitted. “It was. I hate how I did it. I hate that I didn’t say enough, or stay long enough, or tell you what I needed to. But leaving itself… wasn’t the mistake.”
Her hands sank into her coat pockets, shoulders folding in slightly. “I needed to grieve, Jules. I still need to. And I can’t do that in the place Chloe died. You know that.”
Jules didn’t argue. She just looked up at the night sky like maybe it held the words she couldn’t say.
“I do,” she said finally. “I’m not trying to make your grief about me; I just—” She let out a long, quiet sigh. “I don’t know.”
“What?” Mika pressed gently.
“I don’t open up to love,” Jules said, voice almost breaking. “And I did with you. And it scared the hell out of me.”
Mika’s heart clenched, but she stayed quiet.
“But I let it happen,” Jules continued, “because I’d never had anything that felt like that before. That was my first time… feeling the way you made me feel.”
Mika could feel her pulse in her throat. She didn’t reach for Jules’ hand. She didn’t dare close the space between them. She just breathed. “I know,” she said softly.
“No, I don’t think you do,” Jules murmured, kicking a pebble down the trail. “You were already good at love. Like, you had this… way. Like you knew how to give it and receive it. And I was still trying to figure out how to accept it.”
“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared too,” Mika said, almost defensively. “You think I wasn’t terrified? Every time you let me in a little more, I felt like I was holding something too precious for my hands. This was my first time at feeling something like this, too.”
“But you left,” Jules reminded her. “Even after everything. Even when I said we could figure it out.”
“I didn’t leave you,” Mika whispered. “I left because I had to survive.”
“But you did, Mika,” Jules said, the words falling out like a truth she hadn’t meant to say so harshly but couldn’t keep in anymore. “You did leave me. This is the first time we’ve had a conversation since you walked out of the locker room like it didn’t mean anything. You didn’t reply to my texts. Or my calls. Not one.”
The accusation didn’t come with raised voices or sharp edges—it was worse. It was quiet. Wounded. Honest in a way that made Mika’s insides pull tight with shame. She turned her face slightly, as if the shadows might shield her from how seen she suddenly felt.
“I didn’t know what to say,” she murmured. “Every time I looked at your name, I wanted to text something back. I wanted to explain, or apologise, or… anything. But then I’d remember how you looked that day, and I knew nothing I said could make it right.”
“That’s still not a reason to say nothing,” Jules replied, her voice splintering at the edges now. “I told you we could figure it out. I promised you." She continued. "Then you said sorry and kissed me and left me there with nothing. And then just... silence. You were gone, Mika. Like I imagined it all.”
There was a sting behind her eyes, but Mika blinked it away. “It wasn’t anything for me. You know that.”
Jules scoffed, bitter and tired. “Do I? Because I’ve been sitting with that silence for days now. And it’s hard not to think that maybe in the end I was just—” she faltered, swallowing back whatever truth had been about to follow, “—a thing that helped you cope until you didn’t need it anymore.”
“That’s not fair,” Mika said, her voice catching. “You weren’t a thing. You weren’t temporary. You were—” She bit the inside of her cheek. “You are someone I loved being with. Someone I cared about more than I knew how to say.”
“You had sex with me and then left,” Jules said, her voice hollow. “That made me feel like a thing.”
The words landed like a slap, cutting deeper than Mika expected. Her chest tightened, breath catching somewhere behind her ribs. No amount of preparation could have softened the blow of hearing it framed like that—so cold, so transactional, so far from what it had actually meant to her. But how could she argue with the way it felt for Jules?
“I didn’t use you,” Mika said after a long, painful silence. “I swear, I didn’t go there thinking I was going to leave after. I just… I broke.”
There was no defence in her tone—just quiet devastation, like someone trying to make sense of their own wreckage. She didn’t reach out, didn’t try to close the distance between them. It didn’t feel like she had the right to.
“I know you did,” Jules said. “I watched it happen. You cried in my arms, Mika. I held you. I know you broke.”
No bitterness laced her voice, just a kind of sadness that sounded like surrender. Like someone who had memorised the shape of heartbreak and finally gave up trying to rearrange it.
“I understand why you left. I do,” she added. “I hope you know that. I just want you to understand that I’m hurt because I meant it when I said we’d figure it out together. I wanted to figure it out together because I wanted you. Still do.”
Those words hit harder than anything else had all night. Mika’s breath caught mid-inhale, her heart pausing like it needed a second to make room for them. It was quiet. Personal. Devastating.
Her throat went dry. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t, not yet.
A moment passed before Jules’s voice returned, softer now. “Are you okay, though? I’m not sure why you came to the retreat. Was it because something was wrong?”
Mika looked up at the sky like it might hold the answer, but all it gave her was silence and stars. “Everything is wrong,” she murmured. “My sister is dead, and I am broken. And I have no idea where you and I stand. That’s where I’m at.”
The confession didn’t ask for pity. It wasn’t performative. It was just the truth—raw and unfiltered, like she was finally giving herself permission to be exactly what she was.
Jules’s hand found hers in the dark, fingers tentative but warm. “We’re okay,” she said. “Or at least we will be. We’re talking. We’re not pretending. That counts for something, Mika.”
That simple gesture—the hand, the words—nearly undid her. Mika tightened her grip, just enough to feel it. “I came to the retreat to explain,” she said. “To everyone else. To you. I didn’t want to leave things like that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Jules replied gently. “But you did. And I’m proud of you for it. Coming back to Seattle… that must’ve taken everything.”
A dry laugh escaped Mika. “More than I had to give, honestly. But there was something unfinished here. Chloe would’ve wanted me to close the loop. Especially with you.”
They walked in silence for a few blocks, the rhythm of their steps almost synchronised. It felt like the calm before a storm—peaceful, but temporary.
When they reached Jules’s apartment building, they stopped at the steps. Neither moved to go inside. The porch light glowed above them, casting a soft yellow halo that made everything feel more final.
“So…” Jules’s voice trembled despite her effort to keep it steady. “This is goodbye?”
Mika nodded, slowly. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet. “For now,” she said, her voice low. “I need more time to grieve. And there isn’t a timer on that. I have to remind myself of that every day.”
Her gaze flicked to the street, then back to Jules. “I need to be with my mom, my dad… the rest of my family. We lost her, and we haven’t even really been in the same room since. They need me. And whether I like it or not, I need them too.”
Jules didn’t say anything, but the tears were gathering in her eyes now, threatening to spill.
“And as much as I…” Mika began, voice catching on the weight of what she was about to say. “As much as I want you…” Her lips parted, but the rest of it didn’t come right away. She swallowed, hard, trying to hold herself together.
“…I can’t stay here.”
The silence that followed wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t angry. It just existed.
“I know,” Jules whispered finally. “I knew the moment I saw you tonight. You looked like someone who was already halfway gone.”
“Ouch, you could’ve at least told me I looked pretty, Millin,” Mika said, trying for lightness, though it came out a little hoarse.
That pulled the smallest laugh out of Jules, the kind that flickered at the corners of her mouth before slipping into something softer. “You are pretty,” she replied, barely above a whisper. Her hand lifted slowly, thumb brushing the scar on Mika’s forehead like it was something precious instead of something broken. “You know that.”
Under that touch, Mika forgot how to breathe for a second. Her skin felt too warm, too alive. The scar still ached some days, but somehow it didn’t hurt when Jules touched it. Somehow it just felt like memory—like something she’d survived, not something that defined her. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting herself hold onto that feeling before it could pass.
“Maybe I can visit?” Jules tried, not quite joking, not quite serious.
That question made Mika open her eyes. It was such a small thing, but the hope buried inside it nearly undid her. “I think…” Her voice faltered, then found its footing. “Right now, I just need some space. Time alone. But when I’m ready, I’ll text you. Or call you.”
The answer wasn’t what Jules wanted, maybe, but it was the truth. And if there was one thing Mika owed her now, it was honesty—even if it hurt.
"Plus," Mika began. "My parents want to meet you anyway. Would be a good idea.”
Surprise lit up Jules’s features. “You told your parents about me?”
A small shrug, fondness dancing behind Mika’s tired eyes. “Chloe did at first,” she explained. “Then they asked me about you when I came back home. Spent a couple of hours talking about you.”
It was easy to remember that night, curled on the couch with her mother and father, surrounded by half-eaten takeout and old photo albums. They had listened quietly, then asked gentle, precise questions the way they always did when trying to understand something sacred. Mika had talked about Jules’s laugh, her stubbornness, and her quiet kindness buried beneath layers of sarcasm and defence mechanisms. She’d never said the word “love”, but her parents had heard it anyway.
“They like you,” Mika added, voice softening even more. “Chloe did too.”
Jules’s eyes dropped to the sidewalk, her lips pressing together in something between a smile and a wince. “I liked Chloe too. She was a mini you.”
That hit harder than she expected. Mika didn’t respond right away. The idea of Chloe still being here—still being the loudest one in the room, teasing Mika about Jules with zero subtlety—was almost too much to bear. She blinked up at the sky to stop the tears from falling. It didn’t work.
They stood like that for a while. Hands still clasped, neither moving, neither speaking. Mika’s thumb moved slowly over Jules’s knuckles in a steady rhythm, grounding herself in that simple, human connection. It felt like their last tether to something solid in the chaos of everything else.
Inside her chest, something kept cracking open. Not like it had before—not the sharp, splintering break of trauma or loss. This was slower. A softer kind of ache. Like grief shifting into something more manageable. Not easier, but maybe… bearable.
Her mind replayed all the versions of goodbye she had imagined on the plane back to Seattle. Some were angry. Some were dramatic. Some had her walking away before anything could be said. But none of them looked like this—two women holding hands under a flickering porch light, not quite ready to let go.
She wanted to memorise it. The way Jules’s hair fell down her face. The way her eyes softened when she looked at Mika like she was still someone worth wanting. The way her fingers curled just slightly inward, like she wasn’t sure if she should hold tighter or start letting go.
Every part of Mika’s body ached with the urge to stay. But it wasn’t enough to anchor her anymore. Love alone couldn’t fix what was broken inside her. She had tried to bury it, ignore it, and run from it—but it followed her everywhere.
A single tear slipped down Jules’s cheek. Mika saw it before Jules even registered it herself. Instinctively, she reached up, brushing it away with the side of her thumb. Her touch lingered, cradling Jules’s jaw with trembling fingers like she could hold her together for just a little longer.
The moment stretched. Jules didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into the touch, her eyes closing for a second like it grounded her. Her hand rose slowly, coming to rest on top of Mika’s, gentle but steady, like she was afraid to shatter the moment by holding too tightly.
With a breath that felt too heavy for her chest, Mika stepped forward. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were close enough that the rest of the world slipped out of focus. Jules tilted her head, and their foreheads met in the quietest collision—soft and deliberate. Skin to skin. Breath to breath.
“I’m never going to feel like this for anyone else,” Jules whispered, voice catching on the edge of something too deep to name.
The words landed like a weight in Mika’s chest, pressing against every part of her that still longed for what they had. For what they could have had if things had been different. And maybe, one day, they would be. But not yet.
“I know,” she replied, just as softly. No questions left between them. No doubt.
Mika shifted her head slightly, her fingers brushing along Jules’s jaw as she pulled back enough to see her face. Their eyes met—wide, honest. Nothing about this was simple. Nothing about it was easy. But it was real. And that counted for something.
They both leaned in—gradually, naturally, as if the space between them had always been meant to disappear. When their lips met, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate. It was quiet. Reverent. A goodbye kiss that didn’t want to be one.
The kiss lasted longer than it should’ve. Neither of them pulled away quickly. There was too much history between them, too much softness wrapped around the pain. It was the kind of kiss that spoke without needing words—one that said I loved you, I still do, and maybe one day all at once.
Eventually, their lips parted, but they didn’t move. They just stared, searching each other’s faces for something they wouldn’t find tonight.
“I should go,” Mika murmured, even though every part of her wanted to stay. The words came out brittle, a betrayal of her own heart.
Across from her, Jules tried—really tried—to keep it together. Her face trembled despite her best efforts, composure slipping through the cracks like sand through fingers. She nodded once, her voice cracking as she said, “Yeah.”
Neither of them moved right away.
Mika looked down at their hands, still loosely linked between them. She gave one last squeeze, then let go, already missing the warmth. A breeze swept by, cool against her skin, and for the first time all night, she realised how cold she actually felt.
Jules wiped at her cheek quickly, like she didn’t want Mika to see the new tears gathering. But Mika saw them anyway. And for a second, she almost turned around. Almost.
Her feet didn’t listen. They stayed planted as her heart screamed to stay, to find one more reason, one more excuse. But the reason she was leaving had never changed.
“I hope you sleep better now,” Jules said suddenly, not looking at her. “You never did when we were apart. You used to tell me.”
That caught her completely off guard. Her throat tightened. “You used to text me ‘close your eyes, Yasuda’ like that would magically knock me out,” she said with a sad smile.
“It worked sometimes,” Jules said, finally smiling too, though it didn’t reach her eyes.
Mika nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear just to give her hands something to do. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
The silence that followed wasn’t as heavy as before. It didn’t feel final. Just paused. Like a chapter that hadn’t quite ended, just waiting for the right moment to continue.
“You’ll be okay,” Jules whispered, and for a second it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than Mika.
“So will you,” Mika replied, her voice steadier now.
“I’ll be waiting,” Jules added. “Not in a sad way. Just… if the time ever comes.”
Mika didn’t promise anything. She couldn’t. But she offered a small smile, the kind that held more gratitude than words could. That would have to be enough—for now.
One last time, Mika reached out and took Jules’ hand. Her fingers slid into place like they always had, like they remembered each other even after everything. There was something sacred in the simplicity of it, in the way neither of them flinched from the contact. No fanfare. No dramatic declaration. Just a quiet connection before the inevitable parting.
“Goodbye, Jules,” she said softly, her voice breaking on the final syllable. “Just for now.”
There wasn’t much strength left in her, but she summoned what she had to hold Jules’s gaze. She needed her to know it wasn’t an ending. It couldn’t be—not with everything that still lived between them.
Across from her, Jules’s face cracked in the way a heart does when it’s trying to be brave and failing. Her bottom lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. She nodded once, slow and small. “Goodbye, Mika,” she said. “For now.”
No one moved at first. They just stood there, wrapped in the gravity of a goodbye neither of them wanted but both of them needed. Time felt suspended. The night air pressed gently against them, the world still too quiet.
Eventually, Mika loosened her grip. Her fingers slipped out of Jules’s like sand slipping through a sieve—grains of something beautiful and fleeting falling away one by one.
Turning was the hardest part.
Each step she took felt like peeling away skin. It was deliberate, almost mechanical, as if she had to force every muscle to move in the opposite direction of what her heart begged for. Behind her, she didn’t hear footsteps following. Didn’t hear a door closing either. Just the stillness of someone watching, maybe hoping she’d turn back. She didn’t. She couldn’t.
Tears came quicker than she expected. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her coat, frustrated with herself for being so undone. But grief didn’t care about timing. It never had. And neither did love.
She didn’t know how long she’d need. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe longer. Grief wasn’t linear, and neither was healing. She needed time—real time—not the kind measured in shifts or calendar days, but in forgiveness. For herself. For the life she couldn’t fix. For the love she hadn’t known how to keep when everything fell apart.
The guilt hadn’t left her. It hovered like a shadow, reminding her that she had walked away from something extraordinary. But she hadn’t done it out of indifference. She had done it out of survival. Out of the aching, impossible truth that sometimes you have to let go of the good things to tend to the broken ones.
Jules had said she’d be waiting. Not sadly. Just openly. And maybe that was what hurt most—that someone could still look at Mika, even after all the hurt, and leave a door open for her to return.
She wanted to believe that door would still be there when she was ready. But she also knew people changed. Life changed. And love, if you didn’t nurture it, could slip through your fingers without you even realising.
But this love—what she and Jules had—felt different. It had been messy, yes. Complicated. But also full of tenderness and trust and a vulnerability Mika had never known she was capable of. That had to count for something.
A part of her wondered if Jules would go back inside and cry. Or maybe sit on the couch and replay the conversation a hundred times like Mika already was in her own head. That thought made her chest ache all over again.
Still, there was comfort in knowing they’d been honest. That they hadn’t hidden behind sarcasm or anger or the fear that had gripped both of them for weeks. The walls had come down tonight, if only for a little while. That meant something.
She would miss Jules in the quiet moments most of all. In the silence between music tracks. In the smell of someone’s shampoo on a crowded train. In the late-night urge to text a meme to someone who always understood her humour. Those were the pieces she couldn’t take with her but would carry anyway.
And God, Chloe. If only she could’ve seen them tonight. Mika imagined her sister smirking knowingly, nudging her and saying, See? I told you she was worth it.
And Jules was. She was so worth it.