Marcus sits hunched at his keyboard, fingers moving in mechanical rhythm—tap-tap-tap-pause-tap—each keystroke cutting through the classical music like drops of water in a cavern. The melody drifts from speakers he hasn't seen in months, somewhere in the apartment's sprawling darkness. Only the computer's blue glow and a single desk lamp create pools of light in the vast space, leaving the corners to swallow themselves in shadow.
He's always worked this way, he tells himself. The darkness helps him concentrate. Keeps distractions at bay. But tonight the familiar ritual feels off, the music seems to echo longer than it should, and the silence between keystrokes stretches like held breath.
"Just a few more lines," he mutters to the empty room, his voice hoarse from disuse. The words feel strange on his tongue, as if he's forgotten how they should sound. His fingers hover over the keys for a moment longer than necessary. "And there we are. Time to turn in this project and get paid."
The email sends with a soft whoosh. Marcus stares at the confirmation message, then slowly pushes back from the desk. In the sudden quiet, with his hands no longer moving, the apartment seems to press closer. Somewhere in the darkness, a floorboard creaks, though he hasn't moved, and he lives alone.
He's always lived alone. By choice, he reminds himself. Always by choice. He would hide behind his "newfound sobriety" to justify not hanging out with friends. Once that excuse stopped working, he would blame his freelancing schedule, saying the projects were too time-consuming to go out with friends.
Eventually, the invitations stopped. Even the familiar ping of his Discord, which was slowly becoming his only means of communication, would slow down, until nothing. No messages, no friends. Nothing. Just the tap, tap, tap of the keys.
Marcus didn't mind, or really even miss them. Friends were too complicated; inside jokes that would go over his head, petty relationship drama that he always thought was stupid, or some job crisis that he was convinced was overblown to look for sympathy. When he made his choice, he would justify it to himself as no longer having to be a performative friend to people he was slowly hating to be around.
Attempting to navigate the dark apartment, he hit his foot on the island bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. "FUCK!" The sharp pain in his foot was the reminder he needed to turn on the kitchen light. The sting went away in minutes. "You idiot, turn on the light first," Marcus scolded himself.
He started the popcorn, then came back to check his email. After scanning through the junk, one of the sender's names made him feel sick to his stomach. Jared, a former high school friend and college roommate, was getting married.
Marcus -
I know you won't come, or probably even respond, seeing how busy you are right now. However, I still felt it important to invite you to my wedding on June 10th at Walker Farms. If you do end up wanting to take some time away, it would be good to catch up with you. I know we don't talk these days, but I still worry about you. I know this might sound awkward, and may even lessen your chances of coming, but I did book an orchestra. And yes, Sarah will be playing.
You know, she asked about you the other day. I told her that we never talk anymore, and that you're alone. I know this will probably have no effect on you, but please consider coming—getting you out of those gloomy confines, for one day at least, would do you a world of good.
Anyways, I hope you're doing well, and even if it's a no, please just let me know. But on the off chance that you do, please RSVP through my email.
- J
The email hit him like a fist to the solar plexus, and suddenly he was back there—twenty-six years old and stupid with entitlement. Her hair had been so vibrant that day, that impossible shade of red that caught light like fire. He could still feel the texture of it between his fingers, still smell her perfume mixed with the stranger's cheaper scent clinging to his clothes when he came home.
Sarah had been making dinner. Humming something off-key in the kitchen, completely trusting, completely unaware that he'd just burned their entire future to ash for three hours of meaningless flesh and the sick thrill of getting away with it. The way she'd smiled when he walked in, flour dusted on her cheek, asking about his day like she genuinely cared about the answer.
The guilt had hit him then like a freight train. He'd locked himself in the bathroom and cried until his throat was raw, great heaving sobs that felt like his chest was caving in. But even through the tears, even through the self-loathing, there had been that small, poisonous voice whispering: She doesn't know. She'll never know. You can keep this.
POP-POP-POP!
The violent eruption of kernels snapped him back to the present, his apartment, his carefully constructed isolation. The smell of butter and artificial spices filled the air, a parody of the home-cooked meals Sarah used to make, the life he'd sabotaged before it could trap him.
His appetite had vanished completely. The hunger that had driven him to make the popcorn felt like a memory from someone else's life.
"I was such a piece of shit," Marcus berated himself. Twenty-two and convinced he was too complex for monogamy, too intelligent for conventional morality. He'd worn his selfishness like a badge of honor, called it "keeping his options open" and "not settling." As if Sarah had been settling. As if she hadn't been the best thing that had ever happened to his miserable, cowardly life.
The familiar spiral began its descent, that well-worn groove in his mind where self-hate lived and fed. He was pathetic. He was broken. He deserved to be alone. The litany played on repeat, each accusation landing with the comfortable weight of long practice. At least here, in the darkness of his own judgment, he knew exactly what he was. At least here, there were no surprises, no risks, no chances to hurt anyone else. At least here, he was safe from becoming that person again.
Marcus would toss and turn that night. He might have been sleeping, but actual rest eluded him. He was twenty-two again, and back in his old apartment. As he stands there, the moans from a woman he used for his own selfish pleasure began ringing in his ears. Every moan a dagger to his heart, each one becoming more excruciating. The air was acrid, smelling of decay with a metallic taste. Standing in front of him was Sarah, with that smile that once warmed his heart and made him feel some self-worth. Now, that smile intimidated him.
He would stumble over their couch, Sarah taunting him. "Look at the big, bad bully. Reduced to a sniveling pile of pure cowardice. You never changed, Marcus. You pushed me away because you, deep down, are nothing more than a terrified little boy. You pushed everyone away, because they wouldn't conform to you. And why should they? You don't even know who you are."
Marcus ran into the bedroom. Screens were covering the walls. Every single mistake he made in his life played right in front of him. A figure stood in front of him. She had no form, but Marcus knew it was the woman from that night. Sarah walked into the room and clutched the form. "Was she worth it? Was the three hours she spent playing with your pathetic dick actually worth losing the only person who ever gave a damn about you?" Marcus shook his head no. He wanted to apologize, but as soon as he opened his mouth, blood and bile began pooling around him. All the hate he had for his friends, for Sarah, spewed out of his mouth and began to imprison him.
Sarah's tone was cold. "So, tell me, lover boy, how does it feel to be a murderer?" Even in the dream, his rational mind told him that Sarah was alive and well. "No Marcus, not my body. You killed something far worse. You murdered every ounce of self-confidence. You murdered my trust in people. You murdered everything you loved about me because you wanted to prove how much of a macho man you really are. So, I ask you again, Marcus, was it worth it?" The last three words popped up on every screen.
Once she asked the question, Marcus felt himself freed from the makeshift prison. He ran to the bathroom, trying to wash his hands. No matter how hard he would scrub, the blood would just return. He would splash water on his face, hoping that it would jolt his body back to the real world, and not this hellscape.
He looked in the mirror as the woman's face looked right through him. "Marcus, do you even know my name?" He looks down, and breathes deep. "I told you, but you didn't even give enough of a shit about me to remember it." Her face mixed sadness with anger. "So I was nothing but a piece of trash to you? Just a warm hole to stick your dick in?" Marcus angrily lifted his head to face the woman, but now, her face was crumpled like a piece of paper. Then, she disappeared. "Down here, Marcus. Where you think I belong." Marcus bent down to the trash can. "I gave you my body, Marcus. For three hours, I gave myself to you, thinking you were a good man. Thinking we had a future."
He looked back at the mirror. His vision began to blur as his head spun. He falls to the floor, hitting his head. As he regains his vision, all the friends and family he abandoned because he just couldn't be bothered to lower himself stand over him, mocking him. Marcus begins to crawl back from the cruel taunts. Then, everything stops for a moment. A teenage Jared walks in the room. "J-Jared? What the fuck is going on?" Marcus asked, his voice cracked, he's never been so scared. "Look at yourself, Marc." Jared holds a mirror to Marcus's face. He's a teenager again, and those feelings of being scared and bullied because he was the new kid at school return to him. Jared was the first person who treated Marcus with kindness. They became quick friends, and were close until Marcus started pushing everyone away. "I'm the last one who stayed, Marc. Everyone else got tired of your shit, but I kept trying. You quit on me, bro."
Every word became a sting to Marcus. Jared's voice cracked near the end, it would when he was about to cry. Jared's tears rolled down his cheeks. "You killed me too. You made me feel like I had to prove myself worthy of your time." The memories of all the ignored texts, invitations, and calls flooded Marcus's mind. He blew off the guy who protected him from getting beaten up in school. Marcus never realized how many nights Jared would cry, feeling the emptiness from not being able to share his greatest triumphs, nor his greatest tragedies, with the one person he desperately needed. "Why, bro? What did we ever do to you to make you feel this way?"
Marcus looks in the mirror one last time with blood streaks coming from his eyes. Piece by piece, the mirror begins to shatter. "Who are you?" voices in the void kept asking. "Who are you?" The crescendo of the glass was breaking his mind, then silence. Sarah, Jared, the woman, the apartment, everything gone. He stands in the vast emptiness of who he has become. The silence is broken by a happy couple cooking a meal. He could tell by the smell it was chicken alfredo, Sarah's favorite. The sounds of giggling, the quick exchange of "I love you," even a child playing. It was Marcus and Sarah, happy. He was watching an alternate timeline where he didn't push people away. Jared and his wife knock on the door. "Merry Christmas," the couple exclaim as they walk into the house. "Uncle Jared!" The child runs up to give him a hug.
"This is what you threw away, Marcus," Sarah's voice echoing in his head. "This is why, even in your nightmares, I would never kill you. That's the beautiful thing about nightmares, Marc. They never end; they just wait until you're weak enough to begin again. What you don't understand is you will always be weak. I can walk back in any damn time I please, and torture you like this, forever. See, Marcus, there is a fate worse than death, and you're living it."
Marcus hit the floor of his apartment like a sack of potatoes. Marcus stayed on the ground for a few seconds trying to catch his breath. His heart was hammering his rib cage like it was trying to escape his chest. The sweat made his cotton t-shirt cling in desperation to his body. He could hear Sarah's taunting laughter in his head.
During the nightmare, he thrashed so hard, half his bedding was on the floor, his covers wrapping him like a cocoon. His tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth. He braced himself against the nightstand that he miraculously missed as faint sunlight kissed the window. He was back in the real world, but what the hell happened last night?
Outside of the bedroom looking like a war zone, the rest of the apartment was deathly quiet, save the humming from the electricity and the occasional crash of the ice maker. After freeing himself from the covers, he stumbled to the bathroom, unsure what was real anymore. Looking at his arms, he noticed scratches he didn't have when he went to bed. He felt the weight of Sarah's stares, he was becoming more self-conscious by the second. Nothing he did was right today, even missing his mouth on his first attempt to brush his teeth. "Shake it off, Marcus. It was just a dream." He kept trying to push all his feelings back to that dark hole where he thought they belonged. For the first time in over a year, he actually thought about texting Jared. He really needed to talk to someone, but then suppressed the idea, justifying it by telling himself that Jared is too wrapped up in wedding prep to worry about him.
The warm, familiar pixelated world of Stardew Valley was quickly becoming a mirror to Marcus's own emotional turmoil. The vibrant colors, simple tasks, and soft music that usually provided a much-needed escape felt suddenly oppressive. Every interaction in the game seemed to echo his own real-life regrets, his isolation, and his tendency to sabotage even the things he cared about.
Marcus rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the discomfort, but it stuck like a stubborn fog. He approached yet another villager, hoping for a more forgiving response. But no. The same cold words echoed in his ears. "Not today, Marcus." It was like the game knew his real-life patterns. Maybe it was some bizarre coincidence, or maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. He sighed and pressed on, trying to complete another task, but even the calming act of fishing felt pointless now.
He couldn't help but wonder: Was this a sign?
Was the game, this cozy escape, really trying to remind him of something he had been avoiding? It seemed impossible, but the gnawing feeling inside him didn't feel like an accident. Guilt. Shame. Anger. His virtual world was turning into a reflection of his own inability to connect.
His hand hovered over the controller, conflicted. Should he just keep playing and distract himself from whatever this uncomfortable sensation was? Or was this a moment he couldn't escape, one he had to confront?
Marcus wasn't sure how long he could keep playing in this twisted, surreal version of his once-comforting sanctuary. Unable to relax, he jabbed at the power button with more force than usual, the console sighing with relief as it went back to a hibernation state. "I got to get my mind off this shit," he sighed. After collecting his nerve, he walked across the seemingly empty room to his computer to open YouTube.
Music was his other means of escape, but the universe had other plans. Almost every song recommended to him reminded him of his past life. A popular song the year Jared and him graduated that they listened to on long road trips that summer, Sarah's then-favorite song, the song playing in the club the night of their first kiss, and many more began haunting his browser. His hand felt guided as he clicked on Sarah's favorite song, blaming it on the dream still screwing with his mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure dancing. She was dancing with herself again, just like she used to do when she thought he wasn't watching. Spinning in the kitchen while pasta water boiled, swaying to music only she could hear while folding laundry, that unconscious joy that had made her seem lit from within. She'd catch him staring sometimes and flush pink, embarrassed by her own happiness, but he'd always coaxed her to keep going. "Don't stop," he'd whisper, pulling her close. "You're beautiful when you're happy."
The memory should have been poison by now, corrupted by everything that came after. But it wasn't. It was perfect and whole and devastating in its purity. He could see her so clearly, the way her red hair caught the afternoon light streaming through their old apartment windows, how her bare feet barely made a sound on the hardwood, the curve of her smile when she'd finally give in and let him dance with her.
"Sarah? Please don't stop. You don't know how much I missed this." Marcus sighed, knowing Sarah was right, he felt like he was back in that prison from last night. He couldn't move, but this time, it was just watching her. Sarah moved with fluidity, like she was invincible. That smile felt perverse now, like she had planned something worse than last night, but knowing the real torture for Marcus was him not knowing when the next round begins.
"Marcus, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."
The words hung in the air for a few moments while Marcus tried to process if this was supposed to be a comfort or a threat. Her voice was gentle and loving, reminding him of the wonderful times in their relationship. Yet, he felt uneasy about the statement; comforted because Sarah would always tell him this on his worst days, but now the statement feels like a threat. Taunting him. Reminding him that she could torture him at any time.
The dual meaning settled in his heart. His hands began to tremble. He was beginning to feel unclean, just like he did driving home from the woman's house that night. His stomach felt like a washing machine, while cold sweat broke on his forehead. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The memories flooded back from that time he was fired from his job. That one simple comfort that only Sarah could provide in that time. Just a reassurance, that's all he ever needed.
She wants him to open up, tell her what's going on in his soul. She wanted to feed off the uncertainty and guilt, she wanted him to feel every last emotion she did those final weeks of the relationship. "Sarah, I'm—" Sarah gave him a comforting squeeze before Marcus could finally say the two words he'd been wanting to for years.
"All I want is for you to just stay here, stay with me. Nothing else matters right now but you and me. Just stay with me, like you never have before." The sting in her final sentence was like a thousand bees attacking him at once. Sarah was denying him absolution, she wanted his soul to wither and decay. This was her revenge, and she was thriving.
Marcus closed his eyes, trying to remember the great times in their relationship, the late-night coffee shop runs, the ice cream just because. Yet, every time he did, there was something else there, the woman kept watching them. Was she really stalking them? After what felt like hours, Marcus finally spoke. "Sarah, I think I get it now. Why you're here, and why you're doing this."
"No, Marcus. You don't get it. This isn't some bullshit revenge fantasy. You do this every time. You think you have a simple explanation for everything, because you think you're so goddamn clever. You aren't, Marcus. You're pretending to be someone you're not. Deep down, you're that same scared little boy you've always been. The same scared little boy your father was when he left your mom."
"What the fuck does my dad have to do with any of this, Sarah? This is between you and me." Marcus felt his anger rising while Sarah laughed. "You bitch." Marcus tried to calm himself, but Sarah was gone.
For the first time since he moved in, Marcus felt alone. Truly, devastatingly alone. His sanctuary, this carefully constructed fortress designed to keep the world at arm's length, had been violated by his ex-girlfriend's ghost, and now even his own refuge felt foreign and hostile.
The violation was complete and intimate. Sarah had slipped past every defense he'd built, infiltrated the one space where he'd felt safe from the consequences of his choices. She was in his dreams, in his mirrors, in the very air he breathed. The apartment that had once protected him now felt like a stage set, artificial and exposed.
After last night's nightmare and this morning's impossible scratches, Marcus found himself questioning everything. What was real anymore? The conversations he'd had with delivery drivers; had those actually happened, or were they just elaborate fantasies his isolated mind had constructed? The emails he'd sent for work. Did his clients really exist, or was he just typing into the digital void, playing both sides of imaginary conversations?
It felt like being trapped in the worst kind of reality show, the kind where the audience knew secrets the contestant didn't, where every genuine moment was being watched and judged by invisible eyes. Was someone out there observing his breakdown, taking notes on how quickly a human mind could unravel when left to feed on itself? Were his neighbors aware of his midnight conversations with phantoms, his desperate attempts to rationalize the impossible?
The boundary between fantasy and reality had become a smear of watercolors bleeding into each other, impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began. But Marcus kept grasping for explanations that would let him stay sane, stay safe, stay in control.
Bad pizza. That had to be it. The pepperoni from last night had tasted slightly off, hadn't it? Food poisoning could cause hallucinations, vivid dreams, even auditory disturbances. Or maybe he was getting sick. A fever could explain everything: the sweats, the disorientation, the way Sarah's voice seemed to echo from every corner of the apartment. The flu could make anyone's mind play tricks on them.
Stress. That was another perfectly rational explanation. He'd been working too much, sleeping too little, eating poorly. His brain was just short-circuiting from isolation and overwork. The wedding invitation had triggered some kind of psychological episode: temporary, treatable, nothing supernatural about it.
Each excuse felt like a lifeline thrown into churning waters, something to grab onto before the current swept him away completely. He repeated them like mantras: Bad food. Fever. Stress. Overwork. Nothing more. Anything to stay in the consequence-free bubble he'd spent three years constructing, where his choices had no real weight and his guilt couldn't take physical form.
But even as he built these walls of rationalization, brick by desperate brick, he could feel them crumbling. The scratches on his arm throbbed with each heartbeat. Sarah's laughter still rang in his ears, too clear, too present to be mere auditory hallucination. The mirror had cracked; he'd seen it crack, heard it crack, felt the sharp sound in his bones.
The harder he tried to explain it all away, the more his head began to spin. Reality tilted sideways, then upside down, and the careful logic he'd been constructing collapsed into a whirlpool of vertigo and panic. His vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping inward like spilled ink.
Just stress, he thought as his knees buckled. Just stress, just food poisoning, just anything but—
Marcus hit the couch hard, consciousness slipping away from him like water through his fingers. And in that last moment before the darkness claimed him, he heard Sarah's voice, soft and impossibly close:
"Stop running, Marcus. You're only making this harder on yourself."
"What do you want me to do, Sarah? Castrate myself right here? Blow my fucking brains out?"
While she wasn't there, Marcus could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. His blood froze in his veins, his heart nearly stopped.
"Confront it, drama queen." Sarah's voice had a hint of condescension in it. "You know what to do, Marcus. You're not a baby, it's time to grow up. Get out of your own way, Marcus. Stop feeling sorry for yourself."
Drama queen. Sarah never called him that, even when they were at their lowest. Yet, she stands somewhere, haunting him, done with his faux self-protection. Marcus tried to move, tried to open his eyes, but his body felt like it was trapped in amber. He could only listen as she laid him bare with surgical precision, each word finding its mark in the soft places he'd spent years trying to protect.
The exhaustion in her voice was starting to cut through the years of self-loathing. "There was a good chance I would have forgiven you, if you had just given me a fucking chance." Her voice cracked on forgiven. "Marc, your problem is you want life on easy mode. You want to live without risk, you want actions without consequences."
The motherly tone of her last sentence started to break Marcus. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, Sarah was completely right about him. Instead of being honest with her, he decided to run. Instead of giving his friends a chance to get to know him, he just walked away. If he didn't want to do it, he just wouldn't. He would busy himself with work as a way to hide from the world. He was miserable, because he never confronted people.
"You decided to kill this before I knew we were even having problems." Just like last night, Marcus could feel the bees in his stomach. The tears felt like acid falling down his face. "Then, you have the audacity to mourn what you destroyed? Look at you, Marc. You destroyed your life because you're a goddamn coward."
Marcus tried to defend himself, but words would just die in his throat. He attempted to form his usual weak defenses, but he knew deep down that she was right. "Well, Marc, let's hear those wonderful defenses you normally use." Sarah's tone began to mock him. "Oh, I was scared. I did what I thought was right. Oh, I thought it would have been easier for both of us. Always the goddamn martyr. You've had five years to come up with one good excuse, and you can't. Pathetic. Glad I found out you were a coward before I married you, Marcus. No telling what the hell you would have run from."
"No, Sarah. You're right. I'm the problem." The words felt like razor blades in Marcus's throat. "I am a coward." He was glued to the couch, completely broken. He closed his eyes; even his worst sickness didn't make him feel as horrible as he did in that moment. He just wanted a respite, a chance to catch his breath and process the last day and a half. There would be no peace.
Once his eyes were shut, it started again. This time, something far worse than he imagined. He’s back in the apartment, the one that gave him happiness so many years ago, now a crime scene. Bodies of broken people surround him. The faces of old acquaintances, college friends, even co-workers, all twisted in fear, were dead at his feet. Their lifeless eyes all staring at Marcus. He walks into the kitchen. Jared is on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, the wedding invitation floating like boat. Sarah lay next to Jared, in the sundress Marcus bought her because he loved how she looked in it. Now, it’s a blood stained mess.
The knife stuck to Marcus’s hand like it was surgically attached. “Are you proud of yourself Marcus?” All the bodies seem to speak in unison. “You got what you wished.” Marcus looks around, confused and scared. Sarah walked over her own corpse. “Well, Marcus, your selfishness finally caught up to you, didn’t it?”
The strobe of the red and blue lights pierced the once white walls of the apartment. Everything he loved, now violated. Then, he saw his father, who had been trying to repair their broken relationship, right at his feet.
Marcus stood frozen in fear for what seemed like an eternity. The sound of the door exploding brought him back to reality. “Drop the knife, and show me your hands, you piece of shit.” The cop barked his orders, and as much as Marcus tried, the blade had replaced his hand. “I’ll give you to the count of three, drop the fucking knife.”
One.
“This is what you are, Marcus. You did this to yourself,” Sarah taunted.
Two.
Marcus’s life flashed before his eyes. All his failures. Everything. Right there before him.
Three.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The bullets tore through Marcus, his life draining out on that kitchen floor. As his vision narrows and his hearing begins to fade, he sees the cop standing over him, placing the evidence marker. He was no longer a human being, just like the rest of the corpses in the apartment. He’s just an object now.
“Just another loser who couldn’t handle his own guilt.” They were the final words before everything faded.
Marcus pulled himself out of his own cold sweat, catching his breath. He felt like the weight of all his guilt was a boulder tied to feet keeping him underwater for hours. His heart felt like it could explode at any minute. His hands were clammy, and sweat soaked his t-shirt. He was back in reality, but you couldn’t convince him of that.
The corpse of Marcus sat on his couch, ready to be examined by the coroner. His consciousness ripped from his body like a cell preforming mitosis. With glassy eyes, he just stared at himself like he was a scientist looking at his next subject for dissection. For all he knew, some skinwalker or alien was at rest in his body.
He just observed, the mechanical way his chest rose and collapsed with each breath. He noted his arms and legs just looking like a marionette puppet in its resting place, just waiting for the puppet master to control his movement. The whole time, Marcus wondered how a grown man could be broken by a simple wedding invitation.
Sarah’s cynical laughter broke Marcus’s concentration. Her taunts becoming more petty, “Are you now trying to run out of your own body, Marc? Running away from everything as per usual.” She took a deep breath, her tone became more friendly, “you looked exactly the way I did for weeks. But Marcus, I fixed myself.”
Marcus sighed, “I’m sorry Sarah. I know those words don’t mean much now—.“Sarah cut him off, “Marcus, ‘I’m sorry’ are just words. If you really want to make it up to me, then fix yourself.”
Marcus got reeled back in to his body. “But how do I do that, Sarah?”
“One step at a time. Remember, Marcus. Nightmares never end. They just wait for you to become weak enough to start again.”
That was the moment Marcus realized he was truly alone. The apartment felt like a desert, no one for miles, no laughter, no one for him to share his triumphs and tragedies. Marcus was the guy from The Twilight Zone, in the library, and his glasses just broke.
Begrudgingly, he walked over to his computer and answered the invitation.
J-
Count me in. We need to catch up.
Marc.
The wedding was amazing, Marcus still had trouble talking with people, but he was trying. After the reception, he stood there, looking at Sarah. She was still as beautiful as he remembered, her red hair covered her face as she bent down to grab her cello case. She looks up, and noticed the shadow in her direction. “M-Marcus? Is that really you?” Sarah smiled, Marcus felt the one thing he was missing in his life.
“God, I missed you. More than you will ever know.” They shared a warm, friendly hug. “I’m sorry, for everything I put you through. If you’re open to it, I would like a second chance.”
Sarah just looked at him, “Marcus, you hurt me. Bad. It took me a long time to get over it. However, there is still a part of me that still loves you with all my heart. I don’t want that wound to be re-opened. However, if you’re willing to earn my trust and my whole heart back, I’m willing to begin again as friends, and see where this goes.”
“I’d like that.” Marcus smiled. “Friends it is, no expectations. I just want to see you happy. You’re always beautiful when you’re happy.” They shared an embrace, and agreed to meet for pizza next week.
Marcus got back to his apartment. There she was, dancing again. Like all those years ago. Marcus just watched for hours, that dopey grin he shared with her returned to his face.