"In a perfect world, yes. But we don't live in a perfect world. We live in one where people have baggage and trauma and years of toxic conditioning to unlearn." He stands. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. I'm just asking you not to close the door completely. Give him a chance to prove he can do better."
"He had his chance. Five dates. That was the deal."
"Then give him one more. Not as part of a contract. Just... as someone who might still care about him despite everything."
Marcus walks away before I can argue.
And I'm left sitting on that bench, my resolve wavering.
The next few days are torture.
I avoid the quad where I might run into Sebastian. Skip the classes we share. Work extra shifts to stay busy. Try to bury myself in homework and routine and anything that isn't thinking about him.
But everyone else is thinking about him. About us. About the speech that's now been viewed fifty thousand times on various social media platforms.
I hear whispers everywhere I go.
"That's her. The girl from the speech."
"I heard she won't talk to him."
"Can you blame her? He hesitated."
"But he chose her in the end. That's romantic, right?"
"Or it's just another rich boy thinking a grand gesture fixes everything."
On Wednesday, a full week after the gala, I'm in the library when I find a book on my usual study desk. Not any book, a leather-bound journal I recognize immediately.
Sebastian's poetry journal.
There's a note tucked inside:You asked me to prove I'm real. This is everything real about me. Even the parts I'm ashamed of. Even the parts that show how much I fucked up. Read it or don't. But know that you're the only person who's ever seen this. S
I shouldn't read it. Should return it immediately.
But I open it anyway.
The first section is poems from two years ago. Bitter, angry poems about rejection and pride and a girl who saw through him. They're raw and honest and painful to read.
The middle section is from the past year. Observations about me. Moments he noticed. Things I said or did that stuck with him. They're achingly beautiful and desperately lonely.
The final section is from the past two weeks. Our dates. His confusion about what he was feeling. His fear that he'd mess it up.
And then, on the very last page, dated the night of the gala:
I hesitatedWhen I should have been certainTwenty-one years of "yes, father"Versus two weeks of "yes, her"Old programming wonFor thirty secondsThirty seconds that cost me everything
They say you can't unring a bellCan't unsay wordsCan't undo damageBut I'm tryingEven if you never hear thisEven if you never forgive meI'm choosing youEvery dayEvery momentWithout hesitationEven if it's too late
I close the journal with shaking hands.
He's right. You can't undo damage. Can't erase that moment of doubt.
But.
But maybe forgiveness isn't about erasing. Maybe it's about accepting that people are flawed and complicated and sometimes they fuck up even when they're trying their hardest not to.
Maybe it's about recognizing that love isn't perfect. It's messy and uncertain and sometimes it stumbles before it finds its footing.
