Ethan

The hum of the city was supposed to fade once I stepped into the glass-steel world of the architecture firm, but it never really did. Chicago had a way of clinging to you with its noise, its energy, its constant rush. Even here, ten stories up with a skyline view would impress any client, but I still felt the undercurrent of restlessness gnawing at me.

I told myself it was the job. The long hours, the endless presentations, the deadlines that blurred nights into mornings. But if I were being honest—and I rarely let myself be—it wasn’t the work that kept me up. It was her.

Loveth.

No matter how many years passed, her name carried weight, like the sharp inhale before a storm. Some mornings, it was the first thought that crawled into my head, uninvited. Other nights, it was her laugh echoing at the edges of my dreams, pulling me out of sleep and leaving me staring at the ceiling. We were supposed to be finished, years gone and done. Yet my heart hadn’t received the memo.

“Ethan?”

I blinked, snapped back to the present. Claire leaned against the doorframe of my office, arms crossed, one brow arched in that way that made her look both amused and slightly impatient. Her fitted blazer was sharp, her lipstick sharper. She was the kind of woman who walked into a room and drew every gaze without trying.

“You’re zoning out again,” she said. “Big presentation tomorrow. Might want to keep both feet on the ground.”

I leaned back in my chair, forcing a smile. “Thanks for the reminder. You bringing the layouts?”

She held up a thick folder and crossed the room, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Setting it down on my desk, she lingered, her perfume subtle but noticeable. Claire never did anything without intent.

“You know,” she said, lowering her voice, “most people would be celebrating right now. Landing a project this size doesn’t happen every day.”

I shrugged, flipping open the folder just to give my hands something to do. “Well celebrations can wait until after the client signs off.”

“Of course you’d say that.” Her lips curved. “Always focused. Always disciplined. It’s why you’re the best here.”

She meant it as a compliment, but all I felt was the weight of her gaze. Claire admired me—sometimes too openly—and I couldn’t deny that a part of me found it flattering. She was smart, ambitious, and beautiful. The kind of partner who could stand at my side in this fast-paced world. Logical. Practical. Everything made sense on paper.

But love doesn’t live on paper.

And every time she smiled like that, I found myself thinking of someone else entirely. A woman who hated wearing heels because she claimed they slowed her down. A woman who smelled faintly of lavender from the lotions she used after long shifts at the hospital. A woman who laughed with her whole body, as if joy couldn’t be contained.

Loveth.

I cleared my throat and tapped the layout in front of me. “This section needs more light. Glass ceiling here, and uh.. maybe a skylight.”

Claire tilted her head. “You really don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?”

“I take them,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I just prefer finishing the work first.”

Her eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before she straightened. “One day, you’ll have to learn how to live in the moment, Ethan. Not everything can wait until later.”

The words hit harder than she realized. Later. How many times had I told Loveth that exact phrase? Later, when I wasn’t so busy. Later, when things slowed down. Later, when my career was more stable. I’d fed her “laters” until there were none left, and she walked away carrying the pieces of what we had.

And I had no one to blame but myself.

* * *

That night, after the office emptied out and the city glowed with a thousand scattered lights, I stayed behind. My computer hummed, blueprints sprawled across my desk, but my focus seemed to wander.

I picked up my phone more times than I could count, scrolling through contacts until my thumb hovered over her name. I had never deleted it. Couldn’t. It felt like erasing a piece of myself.

I didn’t call. I never did. But sometimes I typed out a message, let the words sit there before deleting them.

How are you?
Do you ever think of me?
I’m sorry.

Always the same cycle. Always unfinished.

With a sigh, I set the phone down and leaned back in my chair. The office was too quiet. Silence left too much space for memories.

Like that autumn afternoon when she dragged me to the park, insisting the leaves were “too beautiful to stay indoors.” I’d gone reluctantly, grumbling about deadlines, only to end up walking beside her as she kicked up red and gold leaves with the tip of her boot. Her laughter had been contagious. Somewhere between the crunch of leaves and the chill of the wind, she’d slipped her hand into mine.

“See?” she had said, smiling up at me. “You can breathe out here. You can slow down.”

She was right—I could breathe. And in that moment, as her smile seemed to catch the light, I had kissed her, beneath a maple tree whose amber leaves drifted around us like slow-falling sparks.

Now, sitting in this sterile office surrounded by blueprints, I wondered if she remembered that day too. Or if she had managed to bury it deeper than I could.

* * *

The next morning, Claire found me at the coffee machine, hair slightly mussed from another sleepless night. She handed me a cup without asking, the kind of small gesture she often used to slip under my guard.

“You need rest,” she said. “One day you’ll burn out, and then what? Who’s going to run this place?”

“Plenty of talented people here,” I muttered, though I knew she was right.

She studied me for a moment, then leaned closer. “You know, Ethan, you don’t always have to do this alone. Some of us would gladly share the weight, if you let us.”

Her words carried more meaning than she admitted out loud. I pretended not to notice. Because what could I say? That the weight I carried wasn’t just deadlines and projects—it was regret, heavy and unshakable.

It wasn’t something anyone could share.

* * *

That weekend, against my better judgment, I found myself walking through Lincoln Park. The air was cool, the leaves just starting to turn. My footsteps pressed against the path, and every sound seemed to echo with memories of her.

I hadn’t planned to come here. It was muscle memory, some part of me steering without permission. But as I stood near the old bench where Loveth once sat feeding squirrels, I felt the years collapse. I could almost see her there, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking at me with those eyes that saw too much.

“I love you 3000,” I whispered once to her, sitting right there. A phrase so odd, so childlike, that she laughed at first. But I had meant it with every fiber of my being. She had loved me and I had loved her back—just not enough to fight for her when it mattered.

Now, the bench was empty. Only the memory remained.

And yet, as I stood there, I realized something terrifying. Despite everything—time, distance, silence—I still loved her.

* * *

When I finally returned home that night, I poured myself a drink and sat in the dim glow of my apartment. The city buzzed outside, alive and unforgiving. I stared at my phone again, thumb hovering.

Claire’s text flashed on the screen first: Dinner next week? Just us. Think about it.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I scrolled to Loveth’s name, my chest tightening. I didn’t write a message. Didn’t dare.

But for the first time in years, the thought crossed my mind: maybe later had finally run out.

Maybe it was time.