I had pushed Topher away. I made this happen. And now he was with a Hollywood star who fit perfectly into his world, someone who was probably everything I wasn’t.
It was over. He was gone. And I had no one to blame but myself.
24
Something shiftedinside me after I talked with Josephine. It wasn’t exactly hope, but a shaft of light cutting through the fog I’d been lost in, a small sign that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to keep feeling hollow.
I was tired of feeling empty, of spending each day locked inside the prison I’d built for myself. I was finally beginning to understand that I had chosen this isolation, the wall I’d kept around my heart. I’d thought I’d been protecting myself, but all I’d done was ensure my own misery.
Josephine made me realize that I’d pushed Topher away because I’d been terrified of needing someone, of being let down, of losing him the way I’d lost everyone else. Losing my parents had taught me a brutal lesson about love and trust, one I’d taken too far. When they’d left me with nothing but debt and unanswered questions, I’d learned to rely only on myself, to fear letting anyone close enough to leave a mark.
But this hollow feeling wasn’t protection; it was a punishment. And I was doling it out to myself.
To grow, I had to confront the very things I’d been avoiding—my parents’ legacy and the mountain of debt they’d left behind. Maybe it was time to finally dig through that box of paperwork, to come to terms with whatever secrets lay buried there.
I couldn’t ignore that they’d left me in a mess. The anger and distrust I’d felt when I discovered the debt still sat heavy in my chest. They’d loved me, I knew that, but what kind of love leaves a daughter burdened and blindsided? It felt like a betrayal, even if I could never admit it.
After I got off my shift at the coffee shop, I dragged myself back to my tiny apartment. I slumped onto the worn-out couch, staring at the cardboard box I had pulled out of the closet. It was battered, taped together at the corners, and marked with my mother’s handwriting. Her careful script labeled it “Important Papers.” I’d avoided this box for years, but now, here it was, staring back at me like it had been waiting for this moment.
I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I reached for the lid. Inside, stacks of papers were arranged neatly. Legal forms, bank statements, and bits of my family’s history lay tucked into old envelopes, yellowed at the edges. I forced myself to dig through them, trying not to overthink each page, each memory.
Beneath one envelope was a photo, one I hadn’t seen in years. The three of us on move-in day at Duke, standing by the car with ear-to-ear smiles. They’d been so proud, and I’d been so grateful, knowing they’d saved all their lives to make this possible. It had been our dream, and they’d given me everything they had to help me achieve it.
What had happened?
And then, toward the bottom, I noticed a small envelope addressed to me in my mother’s familiar handwriting. I hesitated, letting my fingers trace over the letters, as if touching that ink could somehow bring her back. Memories came flooding in, of her warm hugs and my dad’s booming laughter, the feeling of home that was now just a hollow ache.
I’d seen the envelope a hundred times before, but I’d never had the courage to open it.
With a shaky breath, I finally tore it open, unfolding a single sheet of paper. The typed lines were precise and formal, devoid of any warmth. The cold, official facts spilled across the page. As I read, my breath caught. It detailed debts, loans, and the overwhelming burden my parents had carried in silence.
The document explained everything I hadn’t known. My mother had faced a sudden heart condition a few years before their deaths. Doctors had found a blocked artery, and only a complex, high-risk surgery had offered her a chance. At the time, I’d just started my first year at Duke. I knew about the surgery, of course, but I didn’t know that they’d taken out loans for her treatment, intending to pay it all back on their own. But life had other plans, and they’d died in the accident, leaving me with a stack of legal papers and a lifetime of unanswered questions.
I blinked back tears, rereading the cold, clinical phrases, letting the truth settle in. All these years, I’d resented them, convinced they’d left me burdened without a second thought. But now, holding this document, I could see it clearly. They’d done it out of love, out of a fierce need to protect me—even if things hadn’t gone as they’d planned.
The resentment I’d held onto so tightly began to unravel, piece by piece, leaving room for something else. Something closer to forgiveness.
I couldn’t stop myself from wishing I still had the locket with their picture in it. It had been my last tangible piece of them, and losing it felt like losing them all over again.
If only I hadn’t been so careless. The small silver heart had been my way of carrying them with me, a quiet reminder of the life I once had. Without it, I felt as though there was this emptiness that even my memories couldn’t quite fill. I’d lost so much already, and holding onto something as simple as that locket might have made these moments feel a little less lonely.
I leaned back on my worn-out couch, fingers still tingling from rifling through years of my parents’ hidden truths, touching papers they had once held, choices they’d made out of necessity and shielding me out of love. The morning sun streamed through the window, soft and warm, washing the room in a light that felt almost… hopeful. But as the truth settled in, the weight of it all broke over me, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
Tears slipped down my cheeks, one after another, until I was crying fully, my chest shaking with the release. The grief, the anger, and the loneliness that had been bottled up inside me were finally breaking free. For the first time, I let myself mourn everything I’d lost and everything I hadn’t understood until now. And as I cried, piece by piece, I could feel the weight lift, the years of resentment melting away as I finally grasped what my parents had done for me, and why they’d kept it all hidden.
In their absence, I’d spent years building walls, believing they would protect me from pain, from loss, from the hollow feeling that seemed to settle deeper with every passing year. But I saw it now, how those walls had only kept me locked away from anything real. By pushing Topher away, I’d denied myself the chance to truly heal, to open myself up to something good. My reluctance to accept help didn’t make me strong; it just made me lonely. I’d been afraid that leaning on someone, accepting love, would somehow make me weaker. But I was beginning to understand that it could actually make me stronger.
Still, the thought of Topher’s face on that magazine cover lingered in my mind, a bitter reminder of what I’d given up. He’d moved on. Of course, he had. He was Topher Brodie. I’d had my chance, and I’d pushed it away.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t start over. I’d finally gone through my parents’ papers and faced the pain I’d buried for so long, and now, maybe, I could go on with the rest of my life without dragging the past behind me.
I closed my eyes, feeling the sun soak into my skin. I let myself believe that I could choose something different. If I wanted more than this half-life, I’d have to be willing to let someone in, to take that risk, even if it hurt.
My future was waiting for me.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my phone. I hesitated for just a second before scrolling to a name I hadn’t thought about in a while: Mr. Five Hours Early. I’d met him the same fateful day I’d met Topher, when he was my passenger on the airport shuttle.
I dialed his number, my heart pounding a little faster.
