The Truth Between Us [POV: Abigail]
The soft clinking of spoons against porcelain filled the quiet space between us. The soup was warm, comforting, and surprisingly good considering Nate had openly admitted he was a terrible cook.
I lifted another spoonful to my lips, letting the warmth settle in my stomach. It wasn’t just the soup. It was him.
It was the way he made me feel like everything wasn’t so heavy.
Like I wasn’t constantly walking through the wreckage of my past, trying not to cut myself on the broken edges.
Nate watched me from across the table, his elbow resting on the worn wood, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his bowl. His gaze was steady, thoughtful, as if he was trying to memorize this moment.
I set my spoon down and offered him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. Really.”
His brow lifted slightly. “For what? The soup? I mean, yeah, it was exceptional,
I shook my head, my smile faltering just a little. “No, not just for the soup. For being so good to me. Sometimes, I don’t know if I even deserve it.”
Something flickered in his eyes. A quiet understanding.
“I had a great dad, you know,” he said, voice softer now, more thoughtful. “And all I ever wanted as a kid was to be like him. To treat someone the way he loved and treated my mom. They made me believe that real love exists.”
I stared at him, my fingers tightening around the ceramic bowl, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
He spoke about love like it was something simple. Something real. Something that didn’t break people apart.
“You’re lucky, Nate,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “Very lucky to experience something like that.”
His eyes searched mine. “You don’t talk about your personal life much.” He glanced around my apartment, his gaze lingering on the empty walls, the lack of photographs, the absence of any visible past. “No pictures here either.”
I let out a small, tight laugh, leaning back against my chair. “I came from a broken family. My parents divorced when I was young. It was messy. Painful. And Vincent…” I hesitated, debating whether to let him in, to let him see that part of me.
He waited. Patient. Steady.
I exhaled. “Vincent was there when my world fell apart. We grew up in the same town, went to the same college. He was my best friend.”
Nate tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And what happened?”
I traced the invisible ring mark on my finger, the place where the engagement ring had sat for seven years. Seven years of certainty. Of promises. Of thinking I knew everything about the man I was going to marry.
“We left our town together, promised we wouldn’t look back. We supported each other through everything. He went to law school, I went to med school. We built this life together, and when we finally had it—when we were stable, when I finished my residency, when he had his own firm—we got engaged. Seven years, Nate. Seven years of planning for our future. Of thinking we had forever.”
He was quiet, but I could see the question in his eyes. So what went wrong?
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening in my lap. “Then he had his bachelor party. Got a stripper pregnant.” I forced out a laugh, one that felt hollow. “And as it turns out, it wasn’t even his.”
The silence stretched between us.
Nate set his spoon down carefully, his expression unreadable.
“And you also didn’t fight for him?”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I felt my stomach drop, my breath catching in my throat.
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
Had I fought for him?
I had walked away. I had cut him out of my life because it hurt too much to stay. Because every time I looked at him, all I saw was the betrayal. The choice he made.
But I never once asked him to fight for me.
The weight of that realization settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating.
Nate stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. “I should go. I have an early round tomorrow.”
I blinked, still processing his words, still caught in the whirlwind of my own thoughts.
I wanted to ask him to stay.
I wanted to tell him that I had fought, that I had spent nights crying myself to sleep, waiting for Vincent to prove me wrong.
But I didn’t say anything.
Because deep down, I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.
I watched as Nate grabbed his coat, his movements slower than usual, as if he was waiting for me to stop him.
But I didn’t.
And just like that, he was gone.
