Chapter 4: When Ordinary Isn’t Enough

No amount of compliments could erase the voice in my head telling me I wasn’t enough. I wore my insecurity like a second skin, always waiting for someone to see through it.

It was my mom who planted that in my head.

She didn’t mean to, I know. But the words stuck, burrowing deep. I still hear them sometimes, even now.

I was lost in thought when Tyler came out from the hospital entrance, with Adam’s parents beside him.

They looked so small, standing in the harsh morning light. Tyler’s shoulders were hunched, his eyes red. Mr. and Mrs. Callahan clung to each other, leaning on Tyler for support. It made my heart ache.

I was sitting in a conspicuous spot, so they saw me right away.

I tried to compose myself, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn’t want them to see me fall apart. I wanted to be strong, for them, for Adam.

The two elders looked much older, as if they’d aged more than ten years since last time—their hair at the temples suddenly white, their eyes dull, the corners red.

I remembered them as vibrant, always laughing, always teasing Adam about his messy hair or his untucked shirt. Now, they looked hollowed out, like the grief had carved pieces out of them.

Seeing me, their eyes reddened again, and the next second, tears were about to fall.

I felt a lump in my throat. I wanted to hug them, to tell them it would be okay, even though I knew it wouldn’t.

"Maya’s here."

Mr. Callahan’s voice was rough, barely more than a whisper. It broke something in me.

I replied, "Mm," walked to Adam’s mother’s side, and supported her.

She leaned into me, her grip tight. I could feel her shaking. I squeezed her hand, hoping it was enough.

Looking at the three of them, dazed and lost, I said softly, "Mrs. Callahan, let me drive."

She nodded, too tired to argue. I took the keys from Tyler, who just nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears. We moved in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

Adam’s mother’s last name is Callahan—I’ve called her that since middle school.

It always felt strange, calling her by her last name, but she insisted. “Call me Mrs. Callahan, honey,” she’d say, smiling. It made me feel like part of the family, even when I wasn’t sure if I belonged. Funny how things stick with you.

Twenty minutes in the car, the two elders immersed in grief, the car was silent. What surprised me was that, regarding my presence, they seemed to just accept it.

No one questioned why I was there. No one asked if it was awkward. We just sat in the silence, letting it settle over us like a blanket. Sometimes, words aren’t necessary. I was grateful for that.

When I first got together with Adam, he told his family right away, even pestered me to take photos for his phone background.

He was so proud, showing me off to anyone who’d listen. I was embarrassed, but secretly, I loved it.

I couldn’t resist, took a few for him. Who knew he’d show them off to relatives and friends, so everyone in his family knew.

Even his dad’s coworkers knew.

I was both embarrassed and shy.

I’d blush every time someone mentioned it, but Adam just laughed. “You’re famous now,” he’d tease. I’d swat his arm, pretending to be annoyed.

A teenager’s love is too passionate—a moment’s carelessness can burn red-hot. I had seen him love me wholeheartedly, so naturally, I could sense his later indifference.

I missed the way he used to look at me, like I was the only person in the room. When that faded, it hurt more than I expected.

So I left, coolly.

I packed up my pride and walked away. I told myself it was for the best, that I deserved someone who loved me the way I needed. But it still stung.

After that, I couldn’t help much—I knew nothing about funeral procedures, just helped Tyler take care of the two elders.

I made coffee, fetched tissues, called relatives. I tried to be useful, to give them something to lean on. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do.

Even if I had no real right to be there, I couldn’t help myself.

Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was love, maybe it was just habit. I’d spent so many years being there for Adam and his family—it felt wrong to stop now.

There aren’t many people Adam has known for over ten years who aren’t strangers—I’m one of them.

We’d grown up together, survived awkward school dances and bad haircuts, shared secrets and dreams. That kind of history doesn’t just disappear.

Even after that final, decisive breakup, there was still something between us.

We didn’t need to talk about it. We just knew. Some connections are deeper than words.

Love was gone, but friendship remained.

It wasn’t the same, but it was still something. I clung to it, even when it hurt.

We weren’t as close as before, but we could still check in, like each other’s posts.

I’d see his photos—hiking with Tyler, eating burgers at that diner downtown—and smile. Sometimes I’d leave a comment, sometimes just a like. It was our way of saying, “I’m still here.”

My best friend thought it was strange, thought we were rare.

She’d shake her head and say, “Most people block their exes, Maya. You two are weird.” Maybe we were. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much now.

I didn’t understand either. Of all my exes, only he was the exception. Our relationship always hovered between friends and lovers.

We never fit into neat categories. We were always something in-between, never quite letting go, never quite holding on.

Probably because we’ve known each other too long.

When you grow up with someone, the lines get blurry. You stop seeing them as just a boyfriend or a friend—they’re just Adam. Just Maya.

Not to mention, I was his first and only girlfriend, and just for all those times I ate Mrs. Callahan’s food during school, I wanted to stay and accompany this bitter yet kind woman.