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A month passed without a word from her. Surprisingly, I never once saw her at the office during that period. She took the elevator, I took the stairs. Isn't that what workplace couples do when they break up? Maybe she decided to take a new route to get around the office, maybe she didn't. For a whole month I wondered if she ever cared that I was just a floor away from where she was while she was probably exchanging smooches with that blasted supervisor. For a month, I didn't care if I looked pathetic to her friends who, by the way, kept their mouths shut whenever I asked about Summer.

When I finally received a text message from her, every inch of my being revved back to life. She wanted to meet me at the same Starbucks branch we used to frequent. I was hoping that she had finally come to her senses and wanted to apologize for what she did and what she said. The stab wound on my arm has dried and healed by then, but I would be lying to you if I said that I couldn't feel the pain anymore. The physical pain, I could live with; but the emotional and mental trauma I tried to fight for an entire month kept nagging me to just turn around and walk away. At the back of my head, someone was screaming that that girl needed help—professional help—and that I would be better off without her in my life. But the smallest part of me kept the torch burning for Summer. However small the part, it was there, and it was still burning with emotions that were still too strong to ignore.

I got there just in time. She was sitting with her back to me as I entered the once warm coffee place we frequented. Oddly, it felt cold that time. It only got colder when I saw the look on Summer's place.

Honestly, I was expecting remorse, pain, and guilt. I was ready to wipe out the pen-stabbing, chest-kicking incident from my memory--plus the cheating, stranger-kissing part. I loved her THAT much. She only said two words that day before she left the silver ring I gave her on the wooden table that separated us.

I remember that ring. Spare me the smart retort, Veronica. I know you'd say that silver rings, silver bracelets, and silver necklaces are so Silver-"high-school"-Works. But she liked that. On our fifth-month anniversary, I gave her that silver ring with our names engraved on it. I saw the same ring resting coldly on the wooden table that day with her two words still echoing in my ears long after she had left.

"Bye Brix," Summer said.

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