This was what Lauren had risked when she presented him with her quilt. She'd made something with her whole heart.
And when she'd shown him—when she'd been hopefully and sweet, pointing out each carefully crafted square—he'd dismissed it. Acted like she'd embarrassed herself.
Tom set down the frame.
His throat felt tight.
She had been brave enough for that. Tom would have to be brave too.
This wasn't about technical skill.
It was about making something imperfect and offering it anyway. About putting your heart into fabric or paint or thread and hoping desperately that the person you love sees the love instead of the flaws.
Lauren had done that. Had stood in front of his parents, glowing with joy, offering him the gift she’s made with her own hands.
And he'd made her feel small.
Tom looked at his pitiful frame.
He felt small now too. Exposed. Like he was holding up something deeply personal and it wasn't good enough and everyone could see.
Lauren had created something wonderful and personal and full of love.
He had been a fool. Such a fucking idiot.
By the timethe paint dried, the flowers were streaky and uneven, blobs instead of lines. The end result looked like something a child had made.
He looked from the frame to the quilt.
The difference between them was staggering.
She’d made mistakes—he could see them if he looked closely—but she’d worked through them. She’d redone what needed fixing. She’d kept trying until it was right.
He’d do the same. Until he made something good enough for her.
He touched the second square in the sequence, let his fingers trace the stitches. A red door. Their first apartment together.
He remembered the day they’d moved in. Lauren had bought flowers and he’d put them in a rinsed-out pasta sauce jar because they didn’t own a vase yet. They’d eaten pizza straight from the box, sitting cross-legged on the floor because their furniture hadn’t arrived.
The apartment had been small, the radiator clanked, the neighbors fought at 2 a.m., and they had to drag their laundry down to the coin-op every Sunday morning.
But Lauren had loved it fiercely. Had painted the bedroom walls a soft yellow without asking the landlord's permission. She’d sewn curtains from clearance fabric and hung them herself.
They’d been poor. And young. And completely happy.
That red door had been the threshold to their beginning.
She'd stitched it for him. Square by square, she’d presented him with their entire life together in fabric and thread. And when she'd finally shown him he'd folded it up and set it aside.
He imagined being brave enough to give her the frame he’d painted. And then he imagined her looking annoyed, throwing it aside. A band seemed to tighten around his ribs, squeezing until he could barely pull in a full breath.
Lauren had been offering him her love. And he’d rejected it.
Tom looked at the blank squares at the bottom of the quilt. The ones Lauren had left empty for their future.
Babies. Anniversaries. Christmases yet to come.
She'd been willing to be with him forever.
