stick around • matthew schaefer

chapter twenty-five

matthew's pov.

i watched her walk out the door and didn't stop her.

not because i didn't want to.

i wanted to more than anything.

but the look on her face—
that flicker of fear, of not-quite-ready, of heartbreak tangled up in hesitation—

i knew if i said one more word, she'd break.

and maybe i would too.

so i let her go.

again.

and this time, it felt worse than the accident.

because now?

i remember.

i remember everything.

⸻

i sat in the silence for a long time after she left.

didn't move. didn't blink.

just stared at the chair she'd been sitting in and tried not to picture her still there.

like if i imagined it hard enough, maybe she'd come back.

she didn't.

but i didn't blame her.

because this was never just about memory.

this was about timing.

and we've never been good at that.

⸻

the thing is... when i woke up in this hospital, i didn't know what i'd lost.

i didn't know that somewhere out there, someone was sitting in a rink playing the game of her life for me.

i didn't know there were inside jokes waiting in my phone, and chirps stitched into the fabric of every practice.

i didn't know there was a girl out there who used to hate me—
and somehow became the only person who made me feel like me again.

but now i know.

and knowing hurts in ways i don't have words for.

⸻

i remembered the night after our win in sault ste. marie.

we'd both played lights out.

shared a seat on the bus home.

the team was passed out around us. earbuds in. faces pressed against windows.

but we couldn't sleep.

so we talked.

about hockey.
about futures.
about what we'd do if we ever made it to the show.

i told her i wanted to make a name for myself.

she told me she just wanted to prove she belonged.

and then—
quietly—
she asked, "do you think we'd ever play on the same team again someday?"

i'd said, "we already are."

and she smiled.

the real one.

the one she never gave anyone else.

and in that moment, it wasn't about hockey.
or ego.
or competition.

it was about us.

almost.

always almost.

⸻

i write it all down in a notebook the next morning.

every memory.

every quote.
every moment that rushes in.

not because i think i'll forget again.

but because i want to remember right.

i want to hold it all.

even the painful parts.

especially those.

because this story—ours—it deserves to be told in full.

not just the ending.

but the beginning, too.

⸻

gabe comes by mid-afternoon.

i tell him she left.

he doesn't say much—just nods, then offers me a protein bar.

"you gonna be okay?"

i don't answer right away.

but then i say the only thing that's true.

"i think... i have to be."

he sits beside me, eats half the bar, then says, "she'll come back."

"you think?"

he shrugs. "she always does."

and maybe that's the thing i've forgotten the most—

she's never really let go.

not when i was unconscious.

not when i was lost in the fog.

not even now, when she's running from the thing she wants most.

she'll come back.

but this time, it has to be her choice.

⸻

i text her that night.

just one message.

"i'm still here."

i don't expect a response.

and i don't need one.

because love—real love—isn't loud.

sometimes it's just staying in place.

quiet.

unmoving.

waiting for the person you care about to be ready to meet you there.

and i'll wait.

no matter how long it takes.
_______
a/n: 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️