In a quiet, rain-soaked town, Evelyn sat in the dim light of her kitchen, the patter of droplets against the windowpane like a metronome for her thoughts. Her tea had gone cold, untouched, as she scrolled idly through her phone. A familiar face appeared—Callum, her former best friend, grinning in a photo from some corporate gala. He was holding a trophy, his name etched onto the plaque below. The caption read: "So proud of this guy!" with dozens of congratulatory comments trailing beneath.
Evelyn stared at the screen. A tightness coiled in her chest, an ache she couldn’t name. She told herself she was happy for him—she really was. But there was something else, a shadow that lingered, twisting the pride she felt into something bitter.
Callum’s life seemed polished now, like a gem she could never afford to hold. The sleek suits, the spotlight, the steady stream of accomplishments—all so distant from her own reality. She glanced around her kitchen. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter, the half-empty calendar with job interviews scratched out, the quiet hum of a life that felt like it had stalled.
It wasn’t that she begrudged him his success. It was that, somewhere along the way, he’d moved on, leaving her in a version of their shared past she hadn’t been ready to leave.
She remembered when they were inseparable, two restless dreamers who used to sit on this very floor with cheap wine and grand ideas about the future. “We’ll figure it out together,” he’d always say, eyes bright with promise. And she’d believed him. Until the day he didn’t call back, and then the weeks stretched into months, and their lives untangled in ways she didn’t fully understand.
Evelyn sighed and set her phone down, guilt creeping in to join the envy. Maybe this was her fault. Maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough to stay connected. Maybe she’d been too mired in her own struggles to see his. But even as she thought it, she knew the truth was more complicated. Some friendships fray not from malice, but from the simple fact that paths diverge.
Still, she missed him—not the Callum in the photo, glowing under stage lights, but the one who used to laugh with her about the absurdity of their dreams. She missed the belonging they’d shared, the sense that she wasn’t alone on this winding, uncertain road. Now, she wasn’t sure if the longing was for him or for the version of herself she’d been when they were together.
The rain outside softened to a drizzle, the world growing still. Evelyn picked up the tea and took a sip, grimacing at its bitterness. She thought about sending him a message. Something simple, like, “Congratulations,” or maybe even, “I saw your photo. You look happy.” But as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, she hesitated. Would it be genuine, or was she just trying to claw her way back into his orbit?
Instead, she opened her journal, a habit she’d abandoned months ago. She began to write, letting the words spill out without structure or filter. She wrote about her envy, her guilt, her anger at herself for feeling so small. She wrote about the nights they used to spend planning futures that looked nothing like the ones they’d found. And then, she wrote about the road—hers, bumpy and unpaved, but still stretching forward into something unknown.
As the words filled the page, Evelyn felt a small shift inside her, like a door creaking open. She realized she didn’t truly want Callum’s life. She didn’t want the corporate galas or the trophies. What she wanted was her own sense of belonging, her own version of success—whatever that turned out to be.
The rain stopped. Outside, the clouds began to part, the faintest hint of light breaking through. Evelyn closed the journal and placed it on the table, next to her phone. Maybe she would send that message. Maybe she wouldn’t. But for now, she’d focus on her own road, as uneven and uncertain as it felt. After all, it was still hers to travel.