The neon sign of "The Bluebird" flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and old heartbreaks, but Chase didn't mind. He leaned against the mahogany bar, his fingers tracing the condensation on his glass. He wasn't there for the drink; he was there for the ghost of a girl who used to sit on the stool next to him.

Chase pulled his phone out, his thumb hovering over her name. He wanted to text her about the song the band was playing—the one they danced to in his kitchen at 2 AM. Instead, he locked the screen. He knew the routine. He’d check her Instagram and see her smiling in a crowded bar in Lincoln Park, looking lighter, freer.

It had been six months since Maya left for Chicago. Six months of silence, except for the occasional "like" on a photo—a digital breadcrumb that led nowhere.

The sting wasn't that she was gone; it was how easily she seemed to have packed him away. He didn't want her back in the "ruin-his-life" kind of way. He just wanted to know that he had left a dent. He wanted to believe that when she walked past a park that looked like theirs, her heart skipped a beat, even if just for a second.