When it was Almost Us - Short Story

Some Love Stories Don’t End

There are stories that linger.

Not the ones with perfect endings or tidy bows, but the ones that never had a chance to become what they were meant to be.

This one is that kind of story.

The kind you carry quietly. The kind that aches in the spaces no one else can see.

Juliette and Asher were never meant to be a one-night memory. They were everything—the spark, the slow burn, the fall, the forever. But sometimes life doesn’t break in clean lines. Sometimes the love is real, but the timing is cruel. And when he left, everything fractured.

What follows is what remained: the silence, the ache, the hope that maybe, just maybe, love could find its way back.

But not every story gets a second chance.

Some just echo—soft, relentless—until the sound of them is all you have left.

And if you’ve ever had a love that slipped through your fingers but stayed buried in your bones, this one is for you.

They were supposed to be forever. But timing, distance, and one impossible message shattered everything. This is a story of once-in-a-lifetime love—and the ache of letting it go.

When it was AlmostUs

Part One

Juliette

I knew I was screwed the second he smiled at me like I hadn’t cried myself to sleep last night.

Like I wasn’t the reason he got down on one knee, for someone else.

Like I hadn’t whispered I love you to his voicemail the night before his engagement went viral.

Because I did.
Because I still do.

Even if the ring isn’t mine.

---

The past

We met the summer when everything started, two underpaid, over-caffeinated interns fighting for desk space and air conditioning at one of the city’s oldest publishing houses.

He wore oversized sweaters and laughed like the world hadn’t hardened him yet. I wore combat boots with my sundresses and kept my heart zipped shut under sarcasm and iced coffee.

We weren’t supposed to fall for each other. Not with deadlines breathing down our necks and supervisors watching our every move. But somewhere between stolen bagels and late-night manuscript edits, something shifted.

A spark. A glance. A near kiss in the supply closet that lingered for days.

By fall, we were best friends. By winter, we were inseparable.

We never touched. Never kissed. Not until that night.

The heat was broken in my apartment. February wind clawed at the windows. We shared a blanket and a bottle of merlot, and he looked at me like I was the only warmth he’d ever known.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said, voice rough. Honest.

My heart stuttered. "Don't."

He leaned in anyway, his breath brushing my cheek. "I’ve tried, Juliette. God, I’ve tried. But every time I close my eyes, it’s you."

I didn’t stop him.

Our mouths collided, desperate, aching. His hands found my waist, then my thighs, then everything I’d sworn I’d keep from him.

He tasted like wine and truth. My shirt came off first. His followed right after.

The couch was too small but we didn’t care.

He kissed down my neck, slow and reverent, like every inch of me was a prayer.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice trembling against my skin.

I nodded, pulling him closer. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His mouth found my breast, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of something forbidden. His hands slid lower, not with greed but with devotion, guiding, grounding, worshipping every inch of me like I was something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have.

When he finally sank into me, everything else vanished.

The world.

The job.

The rules we spent two years pretending we could follow.

All of it unraveled with every slow thrust, every ragged breath, every whispered promise he didn’t know he was making. He moved inside me like it hurt to hold back, like this wasn’t just want, it was need. Like he’d spent months starving for something only I could give him.

And I gave it freely.

Not just my body.

I gave him my trust, my ache, my surrender. I gave him the girl no one else ever really got to see. The one who loved too hard and held everything in, the one who had only ever felt safe in his arms.

He kissed me like he knew it.

Like he felt it, too.

And when it was over, when we were nothing but tangled limbs and shaky breaths, he collapsed on top of me with a soft groan and buried his face in my neck.

And that’s when I knew.

This wasn’t casual.

It never had been.

The moment when almost became… everything.

We didn’t sleep. Not really. We dozed between kisses. He traced circles on my back. I memorized the slope of his jaw in the moonlight.

Around four a.m., he whispered, “I think I’ve been yours longer than either of us realized.”

I smiled, eyes stinging. “Then stay with me forever.”

He stilled.

I hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud.

He kissed my shoulder, quiet for so long I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Then he said, “I got the job, Juliette. In L.A. They called this afternoon.”

My stomach dropped.

“You’re leaving?”

“They want me there next week.”

Silence stretched between us like another body in the bed.

I pushed myself up, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Then you have to go.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s not what you just said.”

“I know.” I looked away. “But I won’t be the girl who makes you choose.”

He sat up, brushed my hair behind my ear. “You wouldn’t have to. I’d choose you.”

The ache in my throat burned. “But you’d always wonder.”

He pulled me back into him, kissed my forehead like a goodbye. Like an apology.

“I don’t want this to be over,” he whispered.

“Then don’t let it be.”

He didn’t answer.

And when I woke up, he was gone.

Part Two

Juliette

The Silence

I haven't heard from him for weeks, well if I’m honest it’s more like months. I just don’t want to admit that it’s been that long.

No text. No call. Not even a shitty meme or a late-night “you up?” that I’d pretend to roll my eyes at but secretly treasure.

I keep replaying that night like it’s my favorite song and worst memory rolled into one. His mouth on mine. His body on mine. The way he looked at me like I was something holy.

And then the sound of my front door closing at sunrise. The echo of him leaving.

I’ve written him a dozen messages and sent none of them.

I try. God, I try to move on.

I go to work. I go out with friends. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I’ve gone on dates with guys who talk too much about themselves and ask too little about me. I nod through drinks I don’t want and listen to stories I won’t remember. And when they lean in, I lean back.

Because none of them are him.

None of them make my chest ache just by walking into a room.

None of them make me feel like I’m home just by saying my name.

I don’t want someone new. I want the version of him that looked at me like I was his beginning and end.

But that version of him is gone.

And still… I check my phone every morning. Like maybe, maybe this is the day he realizes he made a mistake. Maybe he’ll call. Maybe he’ll text.

He hasn’t.

But he remembered my birthday. A message comes through at 12:01 a.m.

ASHER: Happy birthday, Jules. I hope you’re smiling today.

There were no smiles for me and I cried for three hours after I got that text. That’s all he said to me after all this time.

…………

It’s now been a few months since he sent that message. After my workout this afternoon, I noticed a missed call and a voicemail from him. I was so excited, until I listened to it.

His dad has a heart attack. Gone before the ambulance even gets there.

The voicemail comes late. His voice is low, unsteady, like he’s trying to hold himself together with pieces that don’t fit anymore.

“Hey, uh… it’s me.”

A shaky breath.

“My dad. He… he’s gone. It happened so fast. I don’t even know why I’m calling. I just… I didn’t know who else to tell.”

He goes quiet for a second, like maybe he’s crying but doesn’t want me to hear it. Or maybe he thinks better of the call altogether.

Then he says it.

“I’m sorry, Juliette.”

And it’s my name that undoes me.

The way he says it—soft, broken—like it still means something to him. Like he doesn’t realize he gave up the right to say it like that.

“I shouldn’t have called. I just… needed to hear your voice.”

But I never answer. Because it hurts too much.

I’ve listened to it eight times.

Then one more for good measure.

I save it to my files, because deleting it feels like losing him all over again.

But I don’t call back. Not because I don’t want to.

Because I don’t trust myself not to beg.

…………

A year passes in pieces.

I finish my portfolio. Get offered a design job in LA. It’s everything I worked for. Everything I used to dream about.

And all I can think is: He’s there.

I tell myself it’s not about him.

But when I book the one-way flight, my hands shake.

When I find an apartment three blocks from his favorite bookstore, I lie and say it was the only one available.

When I finally work up the nerve to text him, my heart is already halfway in his hands.

ME: I’m moving to LA. End of the month. Maybe we could talk?

It’s stupid. Reckless. Naive.

But it’s also honest.

It’s hope wrapped in every word I never said aloud.

And then his reply comes.

Just two words.

ASHER: She’s pregnant.

I stare at the screen for so long my fingers go numb.

I don’t know how long I sit here, blinking through the sting, reading the words over and over like they might rearrange into something else.

They don’t.

There’s no apology. No explanation. Just facts.

He moved on and he didn’t look back.

And the worst part? I knew he was dating. I’ve seen her in his photos smiling next to him, her hand on his arm like it belongs there. I’ve snooped his socials more times than I’ll admit, telling myself it was harmless, that I was over it. That I was just curious.

But I didn’t think it was serious.

I didn’t think he’d give her everything he promised me in one  look.

I didn’t think he’d let someone else keep the parts of him I still dream about.

I thought there was still space for me.

Turns out… I was just a placeholder.

So, I delete the message, then I block his number.

Not to be petty and not to make a point.

But because I have no other choice.

Because loving him hurts worse than losing him ever did.

Because I already know. He won’t come back this time.

Part Three

Juliette

The Return

I don’t expect to see him.

I’m already halfway through a coffee I don’t want, checking my watch like the time might magically speed up and carry me away from this whole awkward networking event. The publisher hosting it is mutual, of course it is. It’s New York. Publishing is a small world. I should’ve known he might show up.

But knowing something and seeing it walk toward you like it never shattered your heart? Two very different things.

He’s across the sidewalk before I can disappear. Same tousled hair, same dreamy eyes, but something’s different. Like he’s heavier now. Worn in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“Juliette,” he says, and I hate how much my name still sounds like a song in his mouth.

I nod. Say nothing. Because if I say his name, I might cry.

He smiles like we’re old friends. Like I’m not the ghost of the girl he left behind. “You look… good.”

That word sticks to my skin like an insult. Good. Not beautiful. Not I missed you. Just good.

“You’re back,” I say, and my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.

“Book launch,” he shrugs. “They flew me in.”

“Right,” I say, even though I already knew. I saw the announcement online two weeks ago. I just hadn’t let myself imagine what seeing him again would actually feel like.

It’s worse than I thought.

There’s a pause, long and heavy. And then, like it’s nothing, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me.

I freeze.

His scent is the same, clean, warm, a little cinnamon. Familiar. Dangerous.

I should pull away.

Instead, I close my eyes just for a second.

Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be held by someone who once meant everything.

And then I feel it.

Cold metal. His left hand. Resting against my back.

The ring.

It burns through fabric, through skin, through bone.

I step back like he’s slapped me.

His brows knit. “Juliette—”

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t.

“I didn’t know if I should call you. After everything. After LA…”

“You could’ve,” I say. “You didn’t, at least not until your dad....” I stop right there and get nothing.

Silence.

I stare at him, this boy I loved, this man who walked away. And suddenly I don’t want closure. I don’t want answers.

I just want him to hurt the way I did.

“I waited,” I whisper. My voice cracks halfway through, but I don’t care. “I waited, Asher. And you didn’t come back for me.”

He blinks, stunned. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Good.

Because nothing he could say would make this better.

Not now.

Not with a ring on his finger and someone else growing his future.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, eyes wide, shoulders tight like he’s only just realizing what he lost.

But it’s too late.

Too fucking late.

I turn before he can say anything else. Before he can reach for me with those hands that used to hold me like I was everything. Before he can ruin me all over again with a single look.

He calls my name once. Soft. Like an apology.

But I don’t stop. The street blurs as I walk, tears threatening but not falling. Not yet. I won’t give him that. Not here. Not where he can still see me.

I make it halfway down the block before I lose my breath. My chest tightens like my ribs are collapsing inward, like all the air I’ve been pretending to breathe finally gives out. I duck into a side alley, hands braced on my knees, heart pounding.

I waited.

I waited while he built a life with someone else.

I waited while he ghosted me, while I made excuses for him, while I reread old messages like they might hold some hidden code that said this wasn’t over.

I waited… and he let me.

My phone buzzes in my purse.

I already know it’s him.

I don’t check it. I can’t. Because if I see his name, I might answer. And if I answer, I might forgive him.

And if I forgive him…

I might never get myself back.

Part Four

Juliette

The After

Some loves don’t fade. They just settle deeper.

I wish that wasn’t true.

I wish I could burn him out of me with rage or ice him over with hate. But I can’t. Because I didn’t love him lightly.

I loved him like it was oxygen. Like he was my beginning and end and every stolen breath in between.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe I should’ve loved myself more. Fought harder for my own heart instead of handing it to someone who didn’t know how to keep it.

But I won’t rewrite what we were.

We were real.

Even if we weren’t forever.

I think that’s the part that wrecks me the most. That it mattered. That he mattered. And still… it wasn’t enough.

Love didn’t save us.

It didn’t stop the silence.

It didn’t stop the distance.

And It didn’t stop the fact that he let me go.

He made his choices. I lived through them. And now, I’m finally learning how to live past them.

There’s freedom in the ache. Not peace exactly but a kind of stillness. The kind that comes when you realize the storm already passed. That you survived it.

I still miss him.

But I don’t wait for him anymore.

Some people are only meant to touch your life, not stay in it.

He was mine.

My almost.

My what if.

And maybe… that’s all I’ll ever be to him, too.

Some love stories don’t end. They just echo, soft and endless in the parts of us no one else will ever reach. And just like that, I let go, not of the love, but of the life we never got to live. Maybe he wasn’t my forever… but I was still his once.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: June 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix