Letting Go
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 2,038
Naomi’s refusal to let go of her ex-fiancé Caleb blurs the line between love and obsession. As her attempts to win him back cross into dangerous territory, she begins to unravel, forcing her to face the ghosts she’s clinging to—and the person she’s becoming.
***
The ring sat at the bottom of a drawer Naomi hadn’t opened in months, buried beneath a clutter of receipts and old ticket stubs. Caleb used to call it the “junk graveyard,” though back then, it was more of a playful tease than a critique. Now, the drawer’s name felt like prophecy. Their engagement was dead, but she couldn’t bring herself to bury it completely.
She stared at the drawer, her chest tightening. Somewhere, her phone buzzed—a text, probably from Kendra—but Naomi didn’t move. She didn’t want advice. She didn’t want pity. She wanted him.
Finally, she pulled open the drawer, the familiar box nestled against a frayed envelope. She ran her thumb over its velvet surface before snapping it open. The diamond caught the dim light, cold and unfeeling.
***
Across town, Caleb was laughing in the golden glow of a late afternoon. He stood on the patio of a brewery, a drink in hand, his body angled toward a woman with dark curls who gestured animatedly as she spoke.
The moment froze in Naomi’s mind. She stared at the photo, her stomach twisting. The post had gone up an hour ago.
She closed Instagram and dropped the phone onto the couch as if it had burned her.
***
Kendra let herself in twenty minutes later, takeout in hand and a look that said, I’m about to drag you.
“Naomi, it’s been six months,” she said, dropping the bags on the coffee table. “How are you still in this space? I thought we were burning sage and starting over.”
Naomi crossed her arms. “I’m not in any space.”
“Oh really?” Kendra shot her a pointed look. “You’ve been doomscrolling Caleb’s Instagram all day. Don’t even try to deny it.”
“I just…” Naomi faltered. “I want to understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” Kendra said, softer now. “He ended things. It sucks. But you can’t keep punishing yourself like this. It’s not healthy.”
Naomi sank into the couch, the weight of the past six months pressing down on her like lead.
***
That night, Naomi cracked open a bottle of wine and spent hours staring at Caleb’s social media. She analyzed every detail of the photo—his relaxed posture, the way the woman leaned toward him. Did she know how he used to trace patterns on Naomi’s back when they were curled up together? Did she know his laugh was louder when he drank IPAs?
The room felt too quiet, the walls too close. She picked up her phone and opened his email. Her fingers trembled as she typed in his password—a habit she hadn’t broken, even after the breakup.
When the inbox loaded, a rush of guilt hit her. She knew this was wrong, but she couldn’t stop.
And then she saw it:
Subject: Dinner Friday?
Her pulse quickened as she opened the email.
Looking forward to seeing you again. 7:00 at Magnolia’s. Can’t wait.
Her stomach churned.
***
On Friday evening, Naomi found herself outside Magnolia’s, her coat pulled tight against the cold. The glow of the restaurant’s sign cast shadows on the sidewalk, but she stayed back, hidden near the corner of the building.
Her heart raced as she watched the door.
Caleb arrived first, his shoulders relaxed, his phone in hand. He stood near the entrance, glancing around until the woman from the brewery approached. Her laugh carried across the street as she hugged him, her curls bouncing under the streetlights.
They walked inside together, disappearing through the frosted glass doors.
***
Naomi hadn’t planned to go inside. She’d told herself she’d just watch, gather her thoughts, and leave. But before she knew it, she was at the hostess stand, her hands clammy as she asked for a table at the bar.
She didn’t order anything. She just sat there, her eyes locked on their corner table. They were laughing, leaning close, their heads nearly touching.
Her breath came in short bursts as she stood abruptly and walked over. Caleb looked up, his face paling when he saw her.
“Naomi?”
Her voice shook as she said his name, "Caleb," louder than she intended. His companion glanced between them, confused.
“Who is this?” the woman asked, her voice sharp.
“She’s leaving,” Caleb said quickly, standing and blocking Naomi’s path. He grabbed her arm and led her toward the entrance, his grip firm but not rough.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I needed to talk to you,” Naomi said, her words spilling out in a torrent. “You won’t answer my calls, and I saw the email. I just—”
“You what?” His voice was low but dangerous.
“I had to know, Caleb. You’ve been ignoring me, and now I see you with her? What am I supposed to think?”
“That we’re over!” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “This is exactly why I left, Naomi. You don’t know when to stop. This? Right here? This is why.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. She felt the stares of other diners as Caleb released her arm and stepped back.
“Go home, Naomi,” he said, his voice flat.
***
That night, Naomi dreamed of the ocean. The waves were endless, pulling her under no matter how hard she fought. Caleb stood on the shore, his back to her, walking away.
She woke gasping, the dream clinging to her like seaweed. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from Kendra.
“Naomi, this has to stop. Call me. Please.”
She stared at the screen, her chest tightening.
***
Two days later, Kendra showed up unannounced, dragging Naomi out of bed and shoving her into the car.
“You’re going to therapy,” Kendra said, her voice brooking no argument. “I’ve already made the appointment.”
Naomi slumped in the passenger seat, too tired to protest.
***
The therapist’s office smelled faintly of lavender, the walls painted a soothing gray. Naomi sat stiffly on the couch, her hands twisting in her lap.
After she recounted everything, the therapist leaned forward slightly.
“It sounds like you’re grieving,” she said gently. “But not just Caleb. You’re grieving the version of yourself you thought you were with him.”
Naomi frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Letting go isn’t just about him,” the therapist explained. “It’s about making space for the person you want to become. The one who doesn’t need someone else to define her.”
Naomi left the session feeling raw, as if a dam had cracked inside her. But for the first time, she also felt… lighter.
***
Naomi hadn’t opened Instagram in weeks. She deleted Caleb’s contact, blocked his number, and finally tossed the engagement ring into the river. She stood on the bridge for a long moment after, the cold wind biting at her cheeks, watching the tiny ripple where it had disappeared.
It felt like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.
Kendra was right: this wasn’t about Caleb anymore. It was about her.
***
On a sunny afternoon, Naomi sat at her dining table with a cup of tea and a stack of blank index cards. At her therapist’s suggestion, she was mapping out her goals—small, manageable steps toward rebuilding her sense of self.
The first card read: Revisit painting.
She smiled, remembering how Caleb used to tease her about the splattered drop cloths that seemed permanently glued to their living room floor. She hadn’t picked up a brush in years, but the thought of it stirred something warm in her chest.
The second card was harder to write: Forgive myself.
Her hand shook as she wrote the words. Forgiveness felt distant, like a foreign language she didn’t know how to speak. But she added the card to the pile, determined to try.
***
Three months passed. Naomi started painting again, filling her small apartment with canvases of sunsets and tangled forests. She joined a local art group and made friends who didn’t know her as Caleb’s ex.
One evening, as she was cleaning her brushes, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her stomach dropping when she saw Caleb’s name.
She hesitated before opening the message.
“Hey. I heard you’ve been doing better. Can we talk?”
Her chest tightened, the old ache threatening to resurface. She sat on the couch, staring at the screen for what felt like hours.
***
Kendra arrived the next day, uninvited as usual, with her arms full of groceries. “You’re cooking dinner with me tonight,” she declared, unloading bags of vegetables onto the counter.
Naomi blinked, startled. “What? Why?”
“Because you’ve been spending too much time in your own head,” Kendra said, waving a carrot like a wand. “And because I have tea.”
Naomi narrowed her eyes. “What kind of tea?”
Kendra grinned. “Caleb texted me. Said he reached out to you.”
Naomi sighed, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know what to do. I haven’t answered.”
“Good.” Kendra set down the carrot, her expression softening. “You don’t owe him anything, Naomi. Not a reply, not closure—nothing. You’re allowed to put yourself first.”
***
A week later, Naomi’s strength cracked. She was sorting through old art supplies when her phone rang. Caleb’s name flashed on the screen.
She stared at it, her heart pounding. Then, against her better judgment, she answered.
“Naomi,” his voice was soft, almost tentative. “Hi.”
“What do you want, Caleb?” She said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.
“I just… I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “About us. I feel like we left things unfinished.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. “We didn’t leave anything unfinished, Caleb. You ended it.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t ready back then, but I’ve changed. I miss you.”
Her stomach twisted. For months, she had dreamed of hearing those words. But now, they felt hollow.
“I can’t do this,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t go back to that place.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “I just want a chance to prove—”
“No, Caleb.” Her throat burned, but she forced the words out. “This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about me. And I deserve more than being someone’s second choice.”
The silence on the line was deafening.
“Goodbye, Caleb,” she said softly, hanging up before he could respond.
***
Naomi spent the next few days painting furiously, pouring every emotion she couldn’t put into words onto the canvas. She worked late into the night, her brushes moving with a life of their own.
When she finally stepped back to look at the finished piece, she felt tears prick her eyes. It was a self-portrait—raw and unpolished—but it was her. The version of herself she was learning to love.
She brought the painting to her art group the following week, her hands shaking as she unveiled it. The room fell silent, and for a moment, she worried she had made a mistake.
Then someone said, “That’s powerful.”
The floodgates opened, and soon, her group was buzzing with compliments and questions. Naomi felt a warmth she hadn’t experienced in years—pride, not for someone else’s approval, but for herself.
***
Months turned into a year. On a crisp autumn morning, Naomi walked through the park where she and Caleb used to meet. The leaves crunched under her boots, their fiery colors painting the ground.
She paused by the bench where they had once planned their future, her breath misting in the cool air. For the first time, the memory didn’t sting. It felt distant, like an old photograph tucked away in a box.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Kendra.
“Brunch tomorrow? You’re buying.”
Naomi smiled and slipped the phone back into her coat. She had places to go, people to see, and a life that was finally her own.
As she walked away, the wind carried the faint scent of lavender—a ghost of what she had lost and the promise of what lay ahead.
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