I'm the one who suggests the night away, but he's the one who suggests Edinburgh.

I don't want to go to Edinburgh.

Edinburgh is where you went with her. Your new girl. The one who I still think of as your "new girl" despite the fact you've been with her longer than we were ever together.

You posted photos of your trip on social media before you were blocked. She wasn't in any of them, but there's a couple that she took of you. You don't seem to be having as much fun as you did with me, and I'm not just saying that. I have so many photos of you still on my phone where you're doing goofy things, making me laugh. You're not doing anything goofy with her, though. They all look so serious.

There's a lyric in a Noah Kahan song, "I am no longer funny 'cause I miss the way you laugh," and I wonder if that's why you seem to have lost some of your silliness. Maybe you were only silly to make me smile, and now that I'm not around, you've lost your motivation and that trait. Or maybe I'm reading too far into it, trying to make myself the leading lady of your story instead of just a footnote.

I don't want to go to Edinburgh, but he seems enthusiastic, and I don't want to burst his bubble by saying, "Well, actually, the love of my life took the girl he chose instead of me there, and so I'd rather avoid it." So, we go to Edinburgh.

We don't really speak on the train there. He's hungover from a night in the pub with his friends, and I'm annoyed that he spent the night in the pub with his friends the day before our trip, so I look out the window while he rests his head on the table. I think about when you and I got the train together. It only happened once, and it was only a twenty-minute trip. We were both hungover, but you continued to make jokes and make me smile. When we got off the train and went our separate ways, you hugged me, and I clung to you in a way that I don't cling to people who are just my friends. I couldn't help thinking you don't hug your friends like that. But neither of us said anything, both too afraid of destabilizing the equilibrium we'd created.

A lot of good that did us.

When we get to the city, the first place he and I go to is the castle. I recognize this view. You're standing right here in one of the photos you posted. You're smiling in the photo, but your teeth aren't showing, and your eyes look dull. In the photos I took of you, you always had a glistening smile illuminating your face, your teeth showing, creases in your eyes, and a light that could make even the darkest night seem bright. When I saw this photo of you, the one she took, I wanted to send you a comparison. I wanted to say, "Look! You don't look as happy when she's the one behind the camera!" I wanted to send it over as proof. But what good would that do?

You might not be as happy with her, but you're happy nonetheless. Something made you want to capture the moment.

Here, with him, he steps away from the wall to move on to the next part of the castle. He doesn't take a picture of me or the view like he doesn't want to document this moment. I step away from the wall without taking out my camera.

We go to a pub in the evening. It's a quaint, cozy place, with a sign saying it opened in the 1800s. I wonder if you came here with her and whether or not you liked it. I would have liked to have come here with you, to sit nestled in a corner, people-watching and talking about everything and nothing all at once. I get a drink, but he doesn't. He says he still doesn't feel well with his hangover.

He doesn't say much the whole evening. I keep rambling on about anything that comes to mind, trying to fill the silence, but he doesn't bite at any of the topics. His phone is on the table between us and keeps buzzing; he glances at it every time it does, and I feel my patience waning. You never used to look at your phone when we were together. Your friend once complained, "You never reply when you're with her." I had felt bad. I assured you that you could still message people when you were with me. "I know I can," you said, "I just kind of forget that other people exist when I'm with you."

He doesn't seem to have that problem. As soon as I finish my sentence, he picks up his phone, and I sigh and look around the room. I have given up trying to make conversation and have resigned myself to a quiet night. So, I people-watch alone while he scrolls on his phone. I think of things that I would have said to you. I think about what you and she talked about when you were here—I've somehow decided that you did come here, with no proof to back it up—and half an hour later, I decide I'm bored. "We can just go back to the room," I say. It's early enough that many people wouldn't have even gone out yet, let alone call it a night. "I'm tired anyway." It's not quite a lie.

On the walk back to the hotel, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve heat in the chilly northern wind. There was a night when you and I met up in a city in the middle of our hometowns. We stayed in the pub until it closed, then went to a club, then another club, and at 4 A.M., we stumbled back to our hotel (separate rooms, of course, so we couldn't disturb that equilibrium). We'd been together well over 12 hours and still hadn't run out of things to say. We never did. We danced and danced in the clubs, having as much fun as we would have if all our friends were there. And as I shivered on the walk to the hotel, with warm cheeks and loose lips, you took off your jacket to wrap around me.

"I love this jacket," I said. "You've worn it since we met. It's intrinsically linked to you in my mind."

"I've actually been thinking of getting a new one," you said.

I gasped, outraged at the idea. "You can't!"

You laughed. "Change is good," you said. "It means we're growing."

I tugged the jacket tighter around myself, taking a deep breath so that your scent would reach my nose. I wish there was a way to capture other senses. You can take photos of what you see, you can record what you hear, but how can you bottle the scent of your safe place, your home?

"I don't like change," I said. "Sometimes, things are just right, and changing them ruins them."

You didn't reply, and looking back, I wonder if you knew her then. Your new girl. I wonder if you'd just met her, the first person you could envision replacing me with. I wonder if our conversation wasn't about your jacket but about us. Because we were inextricably linked before she came along. I associated myself with you just as much as I associated that jacket with you. But maybe you knew, even then, that it was time to move on, time to grow.

When we'd returned to the hotel, your room on the left and mine on the right, I'd almost pulled you in for a kiss. I'd been thinking about it all evening, but I hadn't managed to pluck up the courage, hadn't been brave enough to mention the string that bound us together, that had bound us together since we'd met. Not even alcohol could make me brave enough to risk losing you. Life without you would be empty. I'd be lost, and tugging on the string that bound us wouldn't help me find my way home. Who would lead me back to safety when I lost my way?

In my hesitation, you smiled at me, "Night." You turned and walked to your room.

But it was fine—it was all fine. I still had you in my life; you were still my person. I just couldn't risk something bringing an end to that. Being greedy wasn't worth it. There was too much at stake. Having you as my friend was enough.

But I'm not there anymore. I'm in Edinburgh with him. He's asleep, and I slip out of bed and make my way to the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. What we had was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Some people aren't lucky enough to experience it at all.

It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

Is it? Because this loss feels too deep, it feels like I'll never feel whole again. No one is enough to fill the gap you left, and I'm sorry that I wasn't to you what you were to me. I was replaceable. You filled the absence of me with her. But you left a void in me, a black hole that destroys everything that gets close. Everyone that gets near me gets sucked in, crushed till they're microscopic, and the void in me remains. It's destroying me, tearing me apart bit by bit, making me an empty shell of who I once was. Isn't it ironic? What I need right now is someone with eyes bright enough to light up even the darkest night. Who can light up this black hole in me?

What I need is the very person who did this to me in the first place.