I hadn’t slept much.Jeff’s confession haunted me through the night, tugging at every vulnerable corner of my heart. He wanted me back. After all the years, after choosing Stella over me… he wanted me.The worst part?A small, quiet part of me still wanted him too.I hated that part.It whispered doubts and dragged up memories I had worked so hard to bury. The way he used to pull me into his chest during thunderstorms, how he always brought home my favorite coconut milk ice cream, even when I didn’t ask. How he made me laugh in the middle of fights, just to calm me down.But those were old pages in a book I had already shelved.I arrived at the office earlier than usual, hoping to distract myself in meetings and buried emails. But my mind refused to stay focused. Chelsea noticed right away.“You look like a zombie,” she said bluntly as she set a hot cup of coffee beside my desk. “If this is about Jeff, you really need to get a grip.”I glared at her, though without any real venom. “Th
The days following my conversation with Jeff were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. His confession had reopened wounds I thought had healed, leaving me questioning everything. I needed clarity, and there was only one person I trusted to provide an unfiltered perspective: Chelsea.We met at our favorite café, a cozy nook nestled between towering office buildings. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of baked pastries, creating a comforting atmosphere. Chelsea was already seated at our usual corner table, her eyes scanning the menu."Hey," I greeted, sliding into the seat across from her.She looked up, a smile spreading across her face. "Hey yourself. You look like you haven't slept in days."I sighed, stirring the sugar into my coffee. "That's because I haven't. It's Jeff."Chelsea's expression shifted to one of concern. "What did he do now?"I recounted our conversation in the park, detailing his admission of regret and his desire to rekindle what we onc
Days passed, and Jeff stayed true to his word. He didn’t push. He didn’t call incessantly or ambush me with declarations of love. He was... patient.Too patient.He sent coffee to the office every now and then—always the right kind, always with a sticky note bearing some quiet inside joke or half-forgotten memory scrawled on it. A small, warm reminder of the life we once shared. A life that, despite everything, still lingered in the corners of my mind like the faint smell of cologne on a scarf I hadn’t worn in years.I wanted to believe him.God, a part of me did.But there was still a wall between us—thin, invisible, but tall as hell. And I didn’t know how to tear it down without hurting myself in the process.One evening, I stayed late at the office, going over files that didn’t really need my attention. I just… needed the noise. The distraction.Chelsea wandered in around 7 p.m., her coat draped over one arm and a curious look on her face.“So,” she said, dragging a chair up to my
I didn’t know what unsettled me more—the fact that Jeff had admitted he still had feelings for me… or that part of me wanted to believe him.The day after our confrontation, I found myself spiraling. My brain, usually so sharp and logical, was tangled in loops of questions. Why now? Why say it like that? Why come back just when my life was starting to regain some balance?Was he being sincere… or was this just another one of his fleeting whims?Chelsea had a way of reading my face like an open book. The moment I stepped into the office, she glanced up from her laptop and gave me that knowing look—the one that made me feel like I was twelve and hiding secrets from my older sister."So," she said casually, spinning her pen between her fingers, "did you finally talk to your ex-husband, or are you still pretending you don't feel things when he's around?"I let out a slow breath and slid into my chair. “We talked.”She raised an eyebrow. “And?”“And he said he wants me back.”Her jaw dropp
I stood outside Jeff's apartment, heart pounding against my ribs. The weight of our history pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. After all the pain, the betrayal, and the years spent apart, here I was, about to step back into the lion's den.I knocked.The door opened almost immediately, as if he'd been standing just on the other side, waiting. Jeff looked... different. Older, perhaps. Or maybe just wearier. His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke."Come in," he said softly, stepping aside.I hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The apartment was familiar yet foreign. Some of our old furniture remained, but new pieces had taken their places. The walls, once adorned with photos of our shared adventures, were now bare."Can I get you something? Water? Wine?" Jeff offered, his voice tentative."Water's fine," I replied, my throat dry.He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room. My eyes wandered, landing on a framed photo on the
I didn’t dress to impress him.That was the mantra I repeated over and over while I slipped into a soft navy blouse and ankle-length slacks that hugged my hips just right. I told myself I wasn’t doing this for Jeff. It was just dinner. Questions. Closure.And maybe a few dumplings.But as I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair loose and curled, lips tinted with just enough color—I realized I was lying to myself.There was still a part of me that cared. A part that still wanted to know: Was it really too late for us?Jeff was waiting by the curb when I stepped outside. He was leaning against his car, holding a single white tulip and dressed in that maddeningly soft gray sweater I always loved.His eyes lit up when he saw me.“Hey,” he said, handing me the flower.“What’s this?” I asked, raising a brow.“A peace offering.” He smiled. “One flower for every time I wish I had done things differently.”I looked at the tulip. “You’re gonna need a whole damn garden.”He chuckled, but his s
That evening, as I prepared dinner, my phone buzzed with a message from Jeff:Jeff: "I know I've hurt you, and I can't erase that. But I want to be someone you can trust again. Can we talk?"I stared at the screen, the aroma of garlic and herbs filling the kitchen, as memories of our past intertwined with the present. Taking a deep breath, I typed back:Me: "Come over. Let's talk."As I set an extra plate on the table, I realized that while the path ahead was uncertain, I was willing to take the first step towards understanding, closure, or perhaps, a new beginning.***I didn’t dress up. I didn’t light candles. I didn’t even bother to reapply lip gloss.This wasn’t a date.This was a conversation. One that had been crawling beneath my skin for weeks, maybe months. A conversation that needed to be peeled open like a wound. Because whatever Jeff thought he was doing—showing up with flowers, warm coffee, lingering glances—I needed clarity. Not games. Not nostalgia wrapped in ribbon and
The day started off normal enough—well, as normal as it could when your best friend was plotting a relationship stress test and your ex-husband had confessed he wanted you back.Chelsea hadn’t given me details yet. She said it had to “feel natural” to work. That if Jeff caught even a whiff of setup, it would ruin everything.So instead, I did what I always did when things got too real.I buried myself in work.Meetings. Emails. Approvals. Damage control from one of our junior designers who accidentally sent the wrong pitch deck to a client. It was the kind of chaos that usually kept my head clear. But today?Jeff’s face kept slipping into my mind.The soft way he looked at me lately. The way he listened—like every word I said mattered. The way he smiled when he saw me, like it was the only part of his day he was looking forward to.And worse?The way my chest fluttered when he did those things."Damn it," I muttered to myself, slamming my laptop shut as Chelsea walked back into the ro
It was raining again.Not the soft, romantic kind of rain. The soak you through your bones, make you late to everything, gray-for-days kind.Jeff hated the rain.Which was why I was surprised when I got a text that afternoon:"Be ready in 15. Wear something you can get muddy in."I stared at the message like it had come from an alien.Then again, Jeff had been… different lately.Softer.Less guarded.Like he was trying. Really trying.So, I tugged on my oldest jeans, shoved my hair into a messy braid, and waited.Fifteen minutes later, his truck pulled up, tires hissing against the wet pavement. I ran out, ducking into the passenger seat with a yelp as a sheet of rain chased me inside.“You look like a drowned cat,” he said with a grin.“You look like someone who’s about to explain what we’re doing driving into a storm.”He just handed me a thermos of coffee and said, “Trust me.”We drove for over an hour. Through back roads and winding trails that made my stomach flip. The farther we
It had been two days since the photo.Two days since the box. Since the kiss. Since we sat in the middle of his living room floor, surrounded by scraps of his past, and decided—quietly, stubbornly—that we were worth salvaging.And for a little while, it felt like we were okay.Better than okay, even.He made coffee just the way I liked it. I left a playlist on repeat that I knew he secretly loved but pretended to hate. He kissed the side of my neck when he thought I was asleep. I pretended not to notice, because pretending was easier than admitting I still melted when he did that.But under it all, something buzzed.Something unsaid.A wordless ache living in the spaces between our sentences.That’s the thing about relationships—we talk about the fights, the makeup sex, the milestones. But no one talks about maintenance. No one talks about how hard it is to just keep showing up.And maybe we were showing up for each other now.But what if one of us stopped again?The unease really sta
The next few weeks were a dance of small things.Late night conversations. Little confessions. Fighting over what movie to watch. Laughing until my stomach hurt. Crying when the weight got too heavy and letting him hold me through it.It wasn’t perfect.Sometimes I still flinched.Sometimes he still said the wrong thing.But we were learning.Learning how to be us without pretending the past didn’t exist.Learning that love isn’t about erasing scars—it’s about tracing them with reverence.One night, months later, after too much wine and too much laughter, Jeff pulled me close and said against my hair:“I don’t want a clean slate with you, Demi. I want the messy one. The one with mistakes and lessons and a thousand second chances. I want the real thing.”I smiled, my heart aching with something fierce and beautiful.“You already have it,” I whispered back.And for the first time in what felt like forever, I knew it was true.Love wasn’t a single moment of forgiveness.It was a thousand
The evening air hit me like a slap the second I stepped out of Jeff’s condo.Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.I kept walking, barely aware of the streets, the familiar cracks in the sidewalks, the faint hum of the city coming alive for the night. I walked because standing still meant feeling everything at once, and right now, that felt unbearable.The photo burned in my mind. Stella's hand in his. Her smile. His.Closure, he had said. But how many versions of closure could one person have before it stopped being closure and started being something else entirely?I found myself at the small park three blocks away without realizing it. I collapsed onto a bench, wrapping my arms around myself, willing the tightness in my chest to ease.It didn’t.Because this wasn’t just about a photograph.It was about the small cracks in the foundation we were trying to rebuild. Tiny fractures that, left ignored, would one day split wide open and swallow us whole.And God, I was so tired of trying to be the o
Around noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart
I didn’t go far. Just to the small park down the block from Jeff’s condo unit—the one with the crooked benches and a fountain that hadn’t worked since spring. I sat there, my coat tight around me, watching the early evening swallow the sky whole.I didn’t cry. Not really.I was too tired for tears. Too wrung out from constantly stitching together the pieces of us, only to watch them come loose again.I pulled my phone out, stared at the blank screen. No texts. No calls. And maybe that was the point. Jeff had said he wouldn’t stop trying, but he hadn’t come after me. Not this time.Maybe he was learning to give me space. Or maybe he was just as exhausted as I was.A gust of wind tore through the branches above, scattering brittle leaves across my boots.Why does love feel like this sometimes?Not soft and soothing, but raw. Like walking barefoot on broken glass, hoping every step doesn’t cut too deep. Hoping the bleeding stops before the next fight.But despite everything, I didn’t wan
Around noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart
By Monday, we were back in the city.Jeff dropped me off at my place, and though we kissed goodbye with a promise to see each other soon, something lingered between us—something unspoken and tense, like a storm hovering just beyond the horizon.I tried to shake it off as I stepped into my apartment. I unpacked slowly, letting the quiet settle around me. But my thoughts refused to sit still.Why now? Why was Stella suddenly trying to reappear? And why did Jeff hesitate before telling me?It wasn’t fair—he’d done so much to regain my trust. He’d been showing up, loving me in all the right ways. But one whisper from the past, and the walls I’d slowly let fall started climbing back up.I turned on some music, something soft, just to quiet the noise inside my head. And that’s when my phone buzzed.It was a message. From an unknown number.Unknown: "You can believe him if you want. But you should know he came back to me once before. Right after the first time you left."I stared at the scre
There’s something strangely intimate about folding laundry with someone you love. Not the kind of love that’s still wrapped in red ribbons and candlelit dinners, but the kind that shows up in the quiet domesticity of Sunday afternoons—barefoot, soft music in the background, mismatched socks everywhere.Jeff held up one of my oversized sweaters, the sleeves drooping like tired arms. “This still smells like that coconut shampoo you use.”I glanced up from the pile of towels. “I haven’t used that shampoo in months.”“Must be haunted,” he smirked, then tossed it gently to my side of the bed.I laughed, but it came with a soft ache. This was good. Easy. Comfortable. Almost too comfortable.Maybe that’s why it blindsided me when the tension returned—sharp and unexpected like stepping on glass in a room you thought was safe.It happened that evening.We were cleaning out the hallway closet when Jeff’s phone buzzed on the console table. Once. Twice. Three times.He didn’t reach for it.I woul