I miss us. The first time I realize this, it's not even so much about us as it is about them. They were sitting two tables over from me at the coffeehouse, holding hands and laughing at some private joke only they would understand. There was nothing extraordinary about them, just a nondescript young couple enjoying lattes together on a rainy Sunday morning—yet in that simplicity was everything. We used to be just like them.
That breaks my heart. It's been three months since we called it quits, three long months since I last saw you—an eternity and the blink of an eye rolled into one. I watch them intently, trying to convince myself that the jealousy and misery I'm feeling isn't because I miss you—as I said before, I miss us. I miss the closeness of another human being, the tenderness of a kiss, the pain of smiling so broadly my cheeks ache. That is what I miss. I, Aria Montgomery, certainly do not miss you, Ezra Fitz.
But I've already proven that, haven't I…haven't I?
I always thought that life without you would be unbearable; that as cliché as it sounds, life without you would be no life at all. It isn't. Life is still life. I go to school. I write. I hang out with my friends. I eat dinner with my family. I shop. I paint. I read. It's scary really, how easily you were erased from life. Save a few lonely Saturdays and the poem you wrote me—which, no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to get rid of—it's like there was never an us, never a you.
And it's better that way, isn't it?
It has to be.
That couple two tables over leaves and I'm left to stare out the window, my gaze following each cold droplet of January rain as it pelts the pane. It was raining the last time I saw you, you know, at the bus stop two blocks from here.
The bell over the door chimes, and I glance up just in time to see a dark shock of brown curly hair peeking out from beneath a Yankees cap and an all too familiar Hollis sweatshirt. I'm not sure whether to break into one of those painful grins I mentioned earlier or cry as you catch my eye. You move towards my table, and I swear my heart is thundering loud enough for you to hear. But whatever greeting your about to give me is cut off by a shout of "Ezra, over here!"
You smile, and it's only a few seconds later as you move past me without so much as a hello, that I realize it wasn't for me. It was for her—the blonde woman sitting a few booths back. You once told me that brunettes were your thing; I guess times, and you, have changed. You lean forward and press a quick kiss to her lips—crying definitely seems the appropriate choice now.
A few minutes later, though it feels like hours, you glance my way again. A smile, one so genuine and pure that I can't help but return it, curves on your lips for the second time that day. In that small gesture, I can see that you're truly happy, that you truly care for the pretty girl sitting at the booth with you.
That's all I can take. Wordlessly, I gather my books and leave the coffee shop—the only thought providing me with solace, the only thing keeping me from truly crumbling to a sobbing, mascara streaked mess, is that I had you first.