We broke up.

It was inevitable, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface. Instead of letting that storm tear us apart, I chose to walk away, thinking it was for the best. But watching him break, knowing I was the cause, still haunts me. I loved that boy—still do, in a way that lingers like a whisper. But not all beautiful things are meant to last. I doubt he’ll ever forgive me for shattering his heart, yet I’m grateful he didn’t turn that pain into hatred.

I often wonder how he’s doing now. As for me? The sadness hasn’t faded, though years have slipped by. I’m still here, trapped in that moment seven years ago. I can still see his face so clearly—the confusion, the disbelief, the hurt. Yet, even then, he held my hand as I spilled my heart out, his grip steady, unwavering. When I finally stopped talking, his hand stayed with mine, warm and reassuring. And then, I walked away, never looking back.

Did you stay there, waiting for me to return? Did you hope I’d turn around, just once, to see you one last time? I’m sorry I kept walking. I knew that if I had turned around, I wouldn’t have been able to leave you.

It was the red sneakers that first caught my eye.

Bright against the autumn leaves, they seemed almost out of place—too vibrant, too hopeful in a world that was beginning to fade into the muted tones of fall. He was sitting on the steps of the old library, lost in a book, oblivious to the world around him. I remember hesitating, my feet rooted to the spot as I watched him. Something about the way he was so absorbed in his own world drew me in, made me want to be a part of it.

I never imagined that those sneakers would become a symbol of so much more—a reminder of everything I gained and lost in the brief time our lives intertwined.

Seven years later, I still see them sometimes in my dreams, those red sneakers. They’re always there, carrying him away from me, or perhaps waiting for me to follow. In my dreams, I always hesitate, just like I did that first day. And in the morning, when I wake, I’m left with this hollow ache, wondering if maybe, just maybe, I should have run after him, after those sneakers that seemed to defy the inevitability of our ending.

A few weeks ago, I found myself back at that library. I hadn’t planned on going, but somehow, I ended up there. The steps looked the same—worn, slightly cracked from the years of use, but still standing strong, much like my memories. I stood there, unsure of what I was looking for, or if I even wanted to find it. A part of me hoped I’d see him again, sitting there with a book in his hands, lost in thought, the way he used to be. But the steps were empty, save for a scattering of leaves and the echo of distant footsteps.

I don’t know why I stayed, but I did. I sat down in the same spot where he used to sit, trying to remember every detail of that day. The feel of the cool stone beneath me, the smell of the old books wafting out from the library, the distant hum of traffic from the street. And then, as if the universe decided to play a cruel trick on me, I heard footsteps approaching. My heart raced, pounding against my ribs with a desperate hope I hadn’t felt in years.

I turned around, half-expecting to see him standing there, those red sneakers glowing like a beacon in the fading light. But it wasn’t him. Just a stranger, passing by without a second glance. I felt a rush of disappointment so strong it nearly knocked the breath out of me. What was I expecting? That he’d be there, waiting for me after all this time?

I don’t know why, but I started coming back to that library more often. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, or maybe I’m just punishing myself, trying to relive a time when things were simpler before everything fell apart. Each time, I sit on those steps, waiting. For what, I’m not entirely sure.

A week passed, then two. On each visit, the steps felt colder, the memories sharper. I wondered what he was doing now. Had he found someone new? Did he still think about me the way I thought about him? Or had he moved on, tucked our memories away in a box somewhere, never to be opened again?

And then, one day, as I was leaving the library, I saw them—a pair of red sneakers in the distance, walking away from me. My heart stopped, my breath catching in my throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It was as if time had frozen, and all that existed was that flash of red, growing smaller with each passing second.

I didn’t call out. I didn’t chase after him. I just stood there, watching until those red sneakers disappeared around the corner, taking with them the last remnants of my hope. I stood there long after he was gone, the cold seeping into my bones, until finally, I turned and walked away. This time, I didn’t look back.

The seasons changed, and so did I. Time has a way of softening the edges, of blurring the sharp lines of pain until they’re just a dull ache in the background. But the memories of him, of us, remained vivid, refusing to fade into the past where they belonged.

I still visit the library sometimes, though not as often as before. The steps are now more a place of quiet reflection than a desperate search for something lost. I sit there, book in hand, trying to fill the empty spaces with stories that aren’t mine, but somehow always end up feeling like they could be.

One day, as I was leaving, I found something unexpected. A small, folded note, tucked into the pages of the book I had just returned. My name was written on it, in handwriting I recognized all too well. My hands shook as I unfolded the paper, my heart racing with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

I waited. For as long as I could. But I couldn’t stand still forever. I hope you find what you’re looking for.

It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. I knew exactly who it was from. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of everything we had been, and everything we could never be. I held onto that note for a long time, letting the tears fall freely.

I wanted to write back, to say something, anything that might make things right. But what could I say that hadn’t already been said? So, I did the only thing I could—I folded the note, tucked it back into the book, and returned it to the shelf.

Maybe someone else will find it, years from now, and wonder about the story behind those words. Or maybe it will stay there, untouched, a silent testament to what we were, and what we could never be.

Life moved on, as it always does. I moved on, too, in my own way. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world feels a little too heavy, I find myself thinking back to that boy in the red sneakers. I wonder if he ever found what he was looking for, or if he’s still searching, just like I am.

Maybe, in another life, we’ll find our way back to each other. But for now, all I have are the memories, and the hope that wherever he is, he’s happy.

And maybe that’s enough.