I park and let Mia out. She hops down and immediately starts investigating, her nose working overtime in the darkness. I grab my phone for the flashlight, but I don’t really need it. The moon is full tonight, painting everything in shades of blue-white like an old photograph.
“Come on, girl,” I say. My voice sounds too loud in the stillness. Mia falls into step beside me as we start up the familiar path, her white and tan coat almost glowing in the moonlight.
I know this trail by heart from countless morning walks, but it’s transformed at night. The scrub brush and wind-bent trees cast strange shadows. The ocean sounds different too—the waves hitting the rocks below seem more alive, more urgent. I breathe in the salt air mixed with damp earth and the wild grasses growing along the trail’s edge. The wind picks up as we climb higher, whipping my hair back and carrying the promise of rain.
Mia stays close, occasionally pausing to investigate an interesting scent before trotting to catch up. The only sounds areour footsteps on packed dirt, waves crashing far below, and wind rustling through coastal grass. It’s peaceful in a way it never is during daylight hours, like we’re the only two creatures awake in the entire world.
We round the curve in the path, and I stop dead. The old wooden bench where Zayn and I used to sit faces the endless ocean and star-scattered sky, exactly as it always has. But there’s something new that makes my breath catch.
Rose bushes. Three of them, freshly planted in the rocky soil, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. Wild roses grow on the cliffs, but these are different, set in a curve around the bench. Garden roses with dark green leaves. A few blooms have already opened, pale pink petals luminous in the darkness, their fragrance sweet on the wind.
My heart beats so hard I feel it in my neck. These weren’t here yesterday morning when I walked Mia.
I step closer, drawn forward despite myself. As I approach, I spot something white tucked among the branches—a small card tied with string. My hands shake as I untie it and turn it over. The handwriting is still familiar after all these years.
Putting down roots. -Z
Something cracks open inside my chest. My legs feel like jelly, and I sink onto the bench, clutching the card. The roses blur as tears fill my eyes.
It’s not just that he planted roses. It’s what roses mean. Roses need years to grow strong. They need someone to water them, tend them, stay in one place long enough to watch them bloom. You can’t just dig them up and take them somewhere else when you feel like it. When you plant roses, you’re making a statement: I’m not going anywhere.
Putting down roots. Not just the flowers. Him.
Memories flood me like the tide coming in. Zayn and I watching sunsets from this exact bench, his arm warm around my shoulders, my head resting against him as the sky bled orange and pink and purple. Our first kiss, right here on this weathered wood, his lips tasting like salt air, my pulse hammering wildly I thought it might burst. The night we spread a blanket on the grass to stargaze, when he whispered “always, you” against my temple, his voice rough with emotion and certainty.
And the last time—standing in the rain on this very spot, crying as he told me about Seattle, watching him walk away down the path. The beginning and the end, all contained in this one place perched above the endless ocean.
Mia whines and presses against my legs. She rests her heavy head in my lap, looking up at me with those soulful brown eyes like she knows I’m breaking apart. I run my fingers through her soft fur, anchoring myself to her solid warmth while emotions crash through me like the waves below.
I reach out with my free hand to touch one of the pale pink blooms. The petals are velvet-soft, so delicate yet somehow resilient enough to survive these harsh coastal winds.
Everything I’ve believed about Zayn and what happened between us suddenly feels wrong. I’ve spent years telling myself he left because his career mattered more than I did, that he didn’t love me enough to stay, that I was just someone he could walk away from without looking back. But these roses, this note, the way he looked at me in the coffee shop—none of that fits the story I’ve been telling myself.
The moon turns the ocean to liquid silver. The roses cast delicate shadows across the weathered bench. And I sit here suspended between who I was when he shattered my heartand who I am now—a woman too terrified to believe he might actually stay this time.
Rain starts as I drive down from the cliff trail. It’s gentle at first, soft taps against the windshield, then builds into a steady downpour until I can hear it drumming on my car roof. Mia sleeps curled in the passenger seat, exhausted but content from our midnight walk. I keep thinking about those roses he planted in the harsh, rocky soil. About his note with just four words. I grip the steering wheel tighter to stop the tremor, the bandages Sara wrapped earlier catch on the textured grip. It’s almost one in the morning, and everyone in Bellrose is asleep—houses dark, sidewalks empty, streetlights turning the wet pavement into black glass. I should go straight home and at least try to sleep before my shift tomorrow, but my racing thoughts won’t settle.
I drive slowly through downtown, past shuttered shops and restaurants that look so charming during the day but seem hollow and strange at night. The courthouse looms dark and imposing. The bookstore where I buy my romance novels has dim security lights glowing behind the windows. The harbor is a deeper patch of darkness beyond the buildings, boat masts creating thin silhouettes against the night sky.
I notice something as I approach The Daily Grind—warm light spilling onto the wet sidewalk. The coffee shop should be closed by now, has been closed for hours, but lights glow inside. Not the full overhead fluorescents, just the softer lamps in the back corner where the comfy chairs and small tables create cozy reading nooks.
I slow down, peering through my rain-streaked windshield. The wipers sweep across, offering a clear view for one second before rain blurs everything again. Someone’s inside. Someone’s working at one of the back tables, papers spread out everywhere.
Without meaning to, I pull over and park across the street. Mia lifts her head, giving me a sleepy, confused look. “Just a minute,” I tell her, my voice sounding weird in the quiet car.
The rain creates a shimmering curtain between me and the café, distorting everything. But I recognize him immediately anyway. Zayn. He’s sitting alone in the corner, hunched over legal documents with his laptop open. His shoulders are rounded from exhaustion or intense focus. His tie hangs loose around his neck, top button undone. His hair, which looked so perfectly styled this morning, is disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it over and over.
There’s a coffee cup at his elbow. He reaches for it without looking, takes a sip, sets it back down like someone too focused to register what they’re doing. The staff must be long gone—he probably charmed someone into letting him stay after hours, or maybe he knows the owner now. Five years is a long time. Long enough to build new connections, start a whole new life here.
I watch him work for a full minute while rain hammers my car roof. I’ve never seen him like this before. The Zayn I knew couldn’t sit still, bouncing from one thing to the next, always needing music and people and constant noise around him. He’d cram for exams at the last minute, music blasting, friends texting. This Zayn is different—sitting alone in the near-darkness, bent over stacks of papers, completely absorbed in his work.
He suddenly looks up and rubs his eyes. Panic surges—I think he’s spotted me. But he’s just taking a break, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders before diving back into the documents. The lamp light catches his face just right,highlighting his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes. He looks worn out but determined, like he won’t stop until he finishes whatever he’s working on.
The boy who broke my heart has become this man who works alone through the night in an empty coffee shop with nothing but determination and cold coffee for company. Did Seattle change him this much? Is this who he became during those five years?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I could so easily turn off the engine, walk over there, and knock on the window. I could let myself get pulled back into whatever is still between us. My body wants to go to him, but my brain is screaming warnings—danger, heartbreak, he left before and he’ll do it again.
I shift into drive. I need to go home. I need to leave before he looks up and sees me watching him like some creep. I need to keep my distance.
