What If I Stayed - Part Two: Then & Now

Some goodbyes aren’t really goodbyes.

Not when the memories still live in the walls.

Not when you can still taste what it meant to be loved by them.What 

In this next part of What If I Stayed, we go back—back to the moment it started, and the moment it all fell apart. Because sometimes, before you can move forward, you have to remember exactly what you lost… and why it still matters.

What If I Stayed - Part Two: hen & Now

Before the goodbye, there was everything.

Eli

The couch is still the same. Too soft in the middle, cushions always sliding, a threadbare quilt half-draped over the back. I catch the scent of it as I pass, clean linen and whatever soap Caleb has always used. The one that clung to his skin like an afterthought. Crisp and warm and so goddamn familiar it makes my chest ache.

One night comes back in pieces. Not all at once. Just fragments. A flicker of laughter. The way our knees brushed on the too-small couch and neither of us shifted. The hum of a bad movie we weren’t really watching, just letting play because silence might’ve given us away.

It was late. One of those sticky summer nights where the fan barely helped and the air was heavy with things we weren’t saying. We were both shirtless from the heat, sitting too close for comfort, and pretending we hadn’t been circling something for months.

I remember Caleb saying something stupid—, some sarcastic comment about the movie, and I laughed. Really laughed. The kind that rolls out of your chest before you can stop it. He looked at me then. Just looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time, even though he knew me better than anyone else ever had.

And I couldn’t breathe.

“I dare you,” he said. Soft. Teasing. But something in his voice cracked.

I raised an eyebrow. “To what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in. Barely. His shoulder brushed mine, and the air between us snapped taut.

“To tell me this isn’t what it feels like,” he said.

My heart damn near stopped. I stared at him, every smartass reply stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

I don’t remember who moved first. Maybe we both did. One second, we were breathing the same air. The next, his mouth was on mine.

It was clumsy at first. A little desperate. Like we weren’t sure what we were doing but knew we couldn’t not do it. His lips were warm and soft, but he kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Like this wasn’t just a dare or a mistake… it was inevitable.

When I kissed him back, everything else faded. The movie. The heat. My stupid fear. All I knew was that Caleb tasted like spearmint and sleep and something sweeter I couldn’t name. His hands found my waist, tentative at first, then bolder, pulling me closer until I was straddling his lap and nothing about this felt hypothetical anymore.

It wasn’t our first time, not technically. There’d been touches. Drunken hookups that we never talked about in the morning. But this was different.

This time, there was no one else to blame. No excuses to hide behind.

This time, we meant it.

I remember the way his breath hitched when I kissed the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers trembled just before he touched me, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. I did. I wanted him to. Every inch of me wanted him like nothing ever had.

We didn’t rush. Not that night.

Even when it turned physical, his hand slipping under my waistband, my name on his lips, it wasn’t just sex. It was slow and quiet and so full of feeling I could barely hold it. We moved like we were memorizing each other. Like we didn’t want to forget a single sound, a single breath.

Afterward, we lay tangled on that same couch, limbs heavy, hearts racing. He had one hand on my chest, fingers brushing the space just over my heart. I turned my head and looked at him.

We didn’t say anything.

We didn’t have to.

I think I knew then that if I let myself fall, it’d be all the way. No safety net. No coming back.

And for a second, I thought maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

I blink, and the memory’s gone.

The room is quiet now, too quiet, and my legs ache from sitting too long.

I stand slowly, stretching as I walk toward the hallway, past the old bookshelf, past the edge of everything we were.

The couch creaks behind me, settling like it knows I’m not coming back to it. My steps are slow, careful. Not because the floorboards are loud—though they are—but because I feel like I’m walking through something fragile. Like memory itself might shatter if I breathe too hard. The framed photo is still crooked. The scratch in the hardwood still catches the light. I brush my fingers along the edge of the shelf as I pass, half-expecting dust to rise up and coat me in everything I left behind.

Caleb’s coat is still on the hook by the door.

Same navy one with the frayed sleeve from where it caught on a fence post one winter. I told him to get rid of it. He told me to mind my business.

I reach out, fingertips just grazing the hem before I stop myself. It’s ridiculous, how one stupid jacket can feel like a punch to the chest.

Another memory creeps in before I can stop it.

It was a Sunday. Early. Gray light filtered in through the windows, making the kitchen look colder than it was. My duffel bag sat by the back door, half-zipped and already packed. I hadn’t meant for him to see it yet. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that.

“You going somewhere?”

Caleb’s voice had been even, but I knew that tone. Knew how quiet he got when he was pissed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just kept washing the coffee mug like it was the most important task in the world.

He stepped closer. “Eli.”

“I got offered a job,” I finally said. “In Atlanta.”

A beat. Then another.

“And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

I shrugged. Shrugged. Like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t been keeping me up every night for a week.

Caleb’s jaw flexed. “When were you planning to bring it up? After you were gone?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” I lied.

He flinched, and I immediately hated myself for it.

“You really believe that?” His voice broke on the last word. “After everything?”

I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at the expression I knew I’d find there.

The hurt. The disbelief. The hope that hadn’t died yet.

“You could’ve talked to me,” he said. “We could’ve figured it out. You didn’t have to do this alone.”

“I wanted to do it alone,” I snapped. Too loud. Too sharp. A defense built out of fear.

Because if I admitted the truth, I’d stay.

And if I stayed, I’d ruin it.

Caleb shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t mean that.”

I did. And I didn’t.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and jagged.

“Just tell me the truth,” he said. “Whatever it is. I can take it.”

But I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell him how much I loved him. How it scared me more than anything ever had. How I’d never trusted anything enough to let it be real.

So I said nothing.

Caleb stared at me like he was trying to memorize my face. Like he knew this was the last time he’d see it like this.

Then, quietly:

“If you walk out now, don’t come back.”

I hesitated. Just long enough to almost change my mind.

But fear’s a hell of a thing.

And so is shame.

I picked up the duffel. Slung it over my shoulder like it weighed nothing.

And walked out.

The door shut behind me.

Hard.

Final.

Like the closing of a chapter I wasn’t ready to end but didn’t know how to keep writing.

The door shut louder in my memory than it ever did in real life.

Now, standing in the same hallway a year later, it’s quiet. Still. Like the house moved on without me and didn’t need to slam the door again to make its point.

I run my fingers along the edge of the side table, pausing when they hit the frame that never moved, one of those old candid photos Caleb’s sister took. We were on the back porch, both laughing at something that’s long since slipped my mind. My hand’s blurry in the picture, caught mid-gesture, but Caleb’s smile is sharp. Bright. He was looking at me like I was the only one there. Like maybe I’d already ruined him and didn’t know it yet.

I almost say his name out loud.

Almost let it leave my mouth, like maybe if I speak it, everything else will follow.

But I don’t. I can’t.

There’s too much between then and now. Too much I don’t know how to ask for.

Like forgiveness. Or another chance.

Like whether the version of me that stayed away is the one he remembers.

I want to tell him I didn’t stop loving him.

That even in places I liked, cities I swore I’d never leave again—there was something missing.

I want to tell him that I looked for pieces of him everywhere.

In strangers who held their coffee the same way.

In waiters who laughed too loud.

In roommates who never understood why I never brought anyone home for more than a night.

It was never the same.

No one knew how to fill the quiet like he did.

No one ever made it feel like silence wasn’t something that had to be broken.

That every bed without him felt colder.

That every quiet morning made me want to call, and every time I didn’t felt like betrayal.

That I didn’t come back because I thought I deserved him.

I came back because I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t.

But none of that makes it past my lips.

I just stand there, still gripping the damn picture frame like it might give me answers, and wonder if he can feel it too. If something in the air still pulls tight when I’m near. If he’s in his room right now, awake, thinking about all the things we never said.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of it all, how grief can linger for something you never really lost.

Because it’s not like he died.

He just stopped being mine.

And I stopped being brave enough to fight for what I wanted.

Maybe coming back was selfish.

Maybe it was brave.

Maybe I wanted him to yell. To slam the door again and give me the clarity I’ve been avoiding.

But he didn’t. He let me in.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

My thumb rubs over the edge of the glass, smearing the surface until the image distorts.

“If I’d stayed…” I whisper.

The rest doesn’t come.

Just hangs there, broken and suspended.

Like maybe, if I leave the sentence unfinished.

The words barely leave my mouth before I hear it—the soft creak of a floorboard near the hallway.

Caleb steps into view, sleep-rumpled and barefoot, like I conjured him with nothing more than memory and regret.

His eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t speak.

I don’t either.

We just stand there.

Two ghosts in the same haunted place.

His jaw flexes like he’s trying to decide if he should speak, if I’m worth the words. If I’ve earned them. His gaze drops to the photo still clutched in my hand, then flicks back up.

“How long have you been up?” he asks, voice rough with sleep or maybe it’s something else.

“A while.”

I clear my throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Caleb nods once. Slow. Measured. Like he’s still protecting something, even now.

“You always were good at running from rest,” he says.

It’s not a jab. Not exactly.

But it lands.

I set the photo frame back down, careful this time, like mishandling it might crack something else wide open.

He shifts on his feet, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave. Turn around. Pretend this moment didn’t just scrape against everything we buried.

But then he speaks again.

“You meant it, didn’t you?”

His voice is quieter now. Not accusing… just tired. “When you said ‘if I’d stayed’…”

I look at him, and for once, don’t hide.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

He nods again, but this time, slower. Something flickers in his expression, anger, maybe. Or the outline of something softer beneath it.

Then he says, “Get some sleep, Eli.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Just turns and walks back down the hallway, barefoot steps echoing louder than they should.

And I’m left standing there, heart in my throat, the taste of almost still sharp on my tongue.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

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: September 2025

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