Over the past few weeks, I haven’t heard a single word from Vincent. At first, I expected something — an angry text, a call filled with excuses, or even a desperate attempt to reach out. But the silence has stretched on, uninterrupted, until it feels like an answer all its own.
At first, the quiet gnawed at me. I replayed every possibility in my mind, wondering if he’d received the letter, if he even cared. I thought about how the Vincent I once knew might have responded, but the version of him that exists now feels like a stranger.
For days, I caught myself wondering if he even opened the envelope, if he read the truth I laid bare. The silence began to feel less like an unanswered question and more like closure.
The thoughts of him started to fade, replaced by a growing certainty: Vincent isn’t my problem anymore. He made his choices, and now he has to live with them.
In the quiet left behind, something unexpected has begun to take shape.
Nate doesn’t know everything about my past or the weight I carry, but he’s been there, steady and kind. He has this way of making the world feel a little less heavy, whether it’s with a quick smile during a busy shift or a teasing remark that pulls me out of my head.
There’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s searching for pieces of who I am, not just who I’ve been. His glances linger a little longer than they probably should, his eyes holding a warmth that feels safe.
I’ve started noticing how often he finds excuses to see me — passing by my office, offering to grab coffee, suggesting late—night shifts are better when there’s company. It’s subtle, never overbearing, but unmistakably deliberate. And slowly, against my better judgment, I’ve started to look forward to those moments.
One evening, as I’m finishing up paperwork in my office, my phone buzzes on the desk. It’s Nate.
“Hey, I heard about this pottery studio offering evening sessions today. Thought it might be fun. Interested?”
The message makes me smile. He has a knack for making everything sound casual, but there’s always an undercurrent of thoughtfulness beneath his words.
“Sure. What time?”
“7:30 PM. I’ll pick you up after shift.”
The idea of spending time with him outside of work sends a flutter through my chest, one I try not to overanalyze. It’s nothing serious — just two colleagues enjoying a hobby.
Right?
Still, as I set my phone down, I can’t help but feel a spark of something I haven’t let myself feel in a long time. Maybe it’s the way Nate makes me laugh when I least expect it, or the way he notices the small things, like when I need a moment to breathe.
I’m midway through my consultations for the day when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, frowning when I see Vincent’s name. The message is short and direct:
I’m outside the hospital. We need to talk.
For a moment, my breath catches. My fingers tighten around the phone as a wave of emotions I thought I’d buried threatens to resurface. But then I exhale slowly, grounding myself.
“There’s nothing for us to discuss.”
One appointment after another, my mind screaming while my hands stay steady.
Professional. Detached. The weight of my growing daughter reminds me what matters now — this new life, this new future.
The hours pass in a blur of appointments and paperwork, and by the time my shift ends, I’ve almost managed to push the message from my mind. Almost.
Five hours later, winter twilight paints the hospital windows violet. I gather my coat, my courage. The first snowfall of the season greets me, soft flakes settling on the pavement. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, my breath visible in the cold.
Then when I saw him.
Vincent.
My heart stutters painfully.
Sitting on a bench near the entrance, a large bouquet of white tulips cradled in his lap, partially hidden under his coat to shield them from the snow. My favorite flowers. How dare he remember that?
His head is bowed, his posture weary, and for a moment, he doesn’t notice me. Snow dusts his dark hair and shoulders.
My feet hesitate, rooted to the ground as I take in the sight of him. He looks different — tired, worn, like the weight of the world has settled on his shoulders.
His eyes lift to mine. That same magnetic pull that drew me in eight years ago threatens to drag me under. His smile — god, that weary, hopeful smile — hits me like a physical blow.
But it’s not the kind of smile that brings warmth. It’s the kind that carries pain, regret, and longing all at once.
Something inside me tightens painfully at the sight, but I force myself to stand tall, to resist the pull of old emotions.
Vincent rises slowly, holding the tulips carefully as he takes a step toward me.
“Abigail,” he starts, his voice soft but pleading.
Before he can take another step, I feel a warmth behind me. Nate’s hand rests gently on my shoulder, a bit pressing me to his side, grounding me in the present. In reality.
I tear my gaze from Vincent to meet Nate’s eyes, to see him smiling at me with quiet reassurance. They hold nothing but adoration. Just pure, honest devotion.
“Hey,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Ready to head on?”
It takes me a moment to respond, my gaze flickering back to Vincent. His steps falter, his expression shifting to one of quiet devastation as he takes in the scene before him.
I finally manage to nod, offering Nate a small smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
As Nate leads me toward the parking lot, his arm steady around me, but he doesn’t ask about Vincent. Instead, he fills the silence with light conversation about today.
For a moment, I glance over my shoulder. Vincent is still standing there, the bouquet of tulips slipping from his hands onto the snow—covered ground. The sight lingers in my mind as Nate helps me into the car, but I remind myself that this is where I belong now.
In the car, heated seats chase away the winter chill, but I can’t stop shaking. Nate takes my hand across the console.
“You okay?”
I watch Vincent’s figure shrink in the side mirror, still standing in the falling snow. The tulips laying at his side, petals scattering like the pieces of our broken future.
“Take me home, please,” I whisper while Nate squeezes my fingers.
