“Didn’t notice you here.” I’m so in my head that I didn’t notice when Julia entered my room and sat across the bed. “I figure, so I just stare at you.” She is insufferable.
“So, are you coming back soon? Or are you disappearing for years again?” Ouch, that hurt. I know she didn’t say it in the way I felt it, but still. She’s right. “Well, I’m working on the bar/hotel project, so I’ll be back. Plus, honestly, Tacoon isn’t as bad as I had in my mind for all these years.” What I really mean is that my fear of seeing Ethan and being in the same place where he once left me is gone.
Which is a good thing because now I can see home for what it was before that, and for what it is now. The only problem is that, now, when we’re both here, the fear is gone, but the hope is alive, and that’s a fucking lie. There’s no hope for us, not in this lifetime at least. And I think that’s just what I needed to realize.
“I’m glad you’re going to be back. I’ve missed you. And you seem happy here. I can’t wait for you to come with David and the boys.” David and the boys felt like a punch. I nod and smile, “I’ve missed you too. And I don’t want to be distant from mom anymore. I know she has you, Dad, and Anne, but it’s not the same. At least not for me.” And that’s the truth. I’ve been so busy building my life that I excluded her, well, all of them.
I yank the zipper of my luggage, and it groans like it’s in pain. And honestly, same.
I grabmy phone just before my alarm goes off—7:58 a.m. Late last night, I found an early flight, so I changed the one I had. This way, I can pick the kids up from school and maybe even surprise David when he gets back from work.
Mom’s already in the kitchen when I go downstairs with coffee in hand. “Ready to go?” I smile and nod. “How are you feeling today?” She looks at me with such grace in her face; she’s not hurting anymore, and that’s a relief. “Honestly, I feel better. I miss her, and I’ll always miss her, but I need to accept it and try to live with it.” There’s nothing I could say that can beat that, so I hug her.
Julia’s not so far behind. When we’re finishing up our coffees, she appears. “Oh, I missed coffee?”
“Don’t worry, we left you some.” We share some hugs, a few tears, and then I’m off.
The driveto the airport was quiet, but it’s the kind where your brain won’t shut up. I move like I’m on autopilot. Carry-on, check; bag check. I have my ID on hand. I grab a cappuccino I know I won’t drink and a sandwich I won’t touch. That’s when I see him walking in. Suitcase in one hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, protein bar in his teeth like some beautiful and infuriating disaster.
He spots me right away. “I didn’t know you had an early flight.” His mouth curves into that crooked smile that wrecks me. “I didn’t have an early flight, not until late last night when I decided to change it.” He nods.
“How are you feeling? I mean, coming back home after everything.” It’s an honest question, and I know he knows I’m asking about Larna and not us. We’ve been so ‘busy’ dealing with us that I haven’t even asked in a while. “I’m good, being here kind of made me deal with it in a different way, a healthier way.” I get it. It’s the exposure to it all. I smile and nod. I don’t want to drag out the conversation and force us to say or do something we don’t need or have to do.
“Well, I should get going, I board in a bit. Have a safe flight, Ethan.” He doesn’t look surprised by my change of subject or my sudden goodbye. He’s used to me by now. “Yeah, have a safe flight, Liv. I know we promised not to talk once we’re back home, but please, let me know you landed safely.” Ugh, I hate that I love him. I nod. I can’t keep promising things to him.
I start walking away from him, and it feels poetic. We didn’t have the chance to say a proper goodbye sixteen years ago, and today, we can finally say it.
“Liv,” I hear it as a whisper, and I know I shouldn’t look back, I should pretend I didn’t listen to him. But then I wondered what he had called me for, so I turned.
“I love you,” And that fucking wrecked me. Not because he said it, but because I feel it too. And I want to say back, God, I do, but I can’t. I just can’t. So, I lookhim in the eyes and smile at him. I know that hurt him, but I also know he’ll be okay with that.
We must be. Because we need the distance. And because people are waiting for us
I keep walking towards my gate without looking back, just in time for them to call first class. And as I board that plane, I decide to leave him behind. I love him, I will always love him, but this isn’t our time. We had our chance, and we’ll always have that memory. What we just had was closure to that chapter. I need to see it that way, so it doesn’t hurt more than it has to.
The secondI step off the plane, it hits me hard.
It’s not just the change in the air. That sharp, recycled city oxygen, it’s everything: the noise, the lights, the motion. I’m not just back in the city. I’m back in this version of my life, the one that’s supposed to fit, but suddenly feels two sizes too small.
Everything’s too clean. Too quiet, too curated. The people in the terminal move with purpose; no one’s looking over their shoulder, no one’s falling apart. It feels fake, or maybe I do.
The smell of coffee and perfume mixes with the echo of rolling suitcases. A kid laughs somewhere behind me. A man shouts into his phone about meetings anddeadlines. It’s all so normal, and I hate how much I don’t feel like part of it anymore.
I spot my car right where I arranged for it to be, parked neatly in the long-term parking lot. I’m glad I asked the driver to leave it here. I need the drive home alone—no small talk. No pretending to be fine. Just silence and the low hum of the engine to drown out everything else.
The city is supposed to feel like home. But right now, all it feels like is the place where I have to start pretending again.
As I pull into the driveway, I spot David’s car parked out front. Weird. It’s barely one in the afternoon. He should be at work, buried in back-to-back meetings, late lunches, the usual chaos.
Unless something happened, but he would’ve told me. He always does. That’s the thing about David: he’s consistent and dependable to a fault. Predictable, in the best and worst ways. Still, my stomach twists as I kill the engine.
I grab my bag, step out, and the familiar sound of the gate clicking shut feels suddenly too loud. The air smells like cut grass and the faint trace of rain that hasn’t fully dried yet. Almost comforting.
I unlock the door, push it open, and kick off my shoes in the entryway. The house greets me in silence. Everything is spotless, the way it always is. The faint scent of lemon cleaner lingers, the kind of smell that usually means I’m home, safe, back in the life I built.
But today it feels off. Like someonepressed pause on it while I was gone. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. The sound echoes down the hallway. “David?” I call out, but no response.
I head upstairs, still calling his name, thinking maybe he’s on a call, maybe he’s sick, maybe— that’s when I hear it. Just sound. A rhythm that doesn’t belong in this house. Then his voice, low, breathless, unmistakable.
