I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, like I’m terrified it’ll dissolve if I loosen my hold. My car seems to navigate on autopilot, tires crunching over gravel as I turn onto his street. Afternoon sun catches my rearview mirror, flashing brilliant gold directly into my eyes—like the universe is forcing a decision. Turn back or keep going? I can feel my pulse everywhere—wrists, throat, ears.Thump-thump, thump-thump.The rhythm of the most terrifying thing I’ve ever attempted: trusting him again.
His letter sits folded in my pocket, edges already soft from constant handling since I left the clinic. The paper radiates heat against my thigh. Five years of choices, all roads leading back to me. To us.
I slow as his house comes into view. The gray siding looks warm in evening light, oversized windows reflecting molten gold. It appears identical to my last visit for clinic work, but everything means something different now. Not just a house he purchased, but a future he built. For us.
My hands tremble as I park and kill the engine. The quiet feels heavy, waiting. Like the atmosphere before a storm breaks—full of possibilities.
I inhale shakily. “You can do this,” I whisper, flipping down the visor mirror. My hair’s a disaster from anxious touching, and my face shows evidence of crying. I should’ve gone home to change out of wrinkled scrubs and fix myself up. Too late now.
The walk to his door stretches endlessly. My pulse pounds so violently it physically hurts. In novels, this is when the heroine finally surrenders and claims her happy ending. But this is reality. I might end up sobbing alone in my car, or maybe—just maybe—something miraculous could happen.
I raise my fist to knock but freeze. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he’s reconsidered?
Enough, Sophie.
I force myself to knock. Three loud raps break the quiet evening. Nothing. I knock again, harder. Still nothing.
The windows remain dark. No movement inside, no lights illuminating the rooms. I step back, studying the empty house, my heart plummeting. He’s not home. Of course he’s not. I ignored him for days, didn’t answer eighteen calls—why would he just sit around waiting for me to appear?
I could call him, but my phone died an hour ago. I could wait on his porch, but that feels pathetic and desperate. I could leave a note, but I have no pen or paper except the documents from his letter, and using those doesn’t seem right.
The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of rose and amber. My gaze drifts toward the path beside his backyard—the trail leading up to our bench on the cliff.
Before I consciously decide, my feet carry me around his house to the trailhead. If he’s not home, I know exactly where else he might be. The place where he once promised forever—where he’s been tending those roses for months, waiting for them to bloom.
The trail feels like running into an old friend I’ve been trying to avoiding. The dirt path climbs the cliff face, occasionallyoffering glimpses of ocean between trees. Wind carries the scent of salt and kelp up from below. My legs remember this climb, but my breathing grows labored since I haven’t walked this way with Mia in so long.
Every step summons memories. Zayn and me at eighteen and twenty-one, hands intertwined as we hiked. Racing each other to the top, breathless with laughter. Sitting together on the bench with his arm around me, mapping out our futures after graduation. This is where he first said he loved me. Where we shared our final kiss before he left for Seattle.
I’m panting as the path steepens. The setting sun casts long golden shadows across the trail. My heart races with each step—partly from exertion, but mostly from everything else. Hope. Fear. Emotions I don’t have names for.
I round the final curve, and suddenly there’s the overlook—where the cliff juts out over the ocean with views stretching to infinity. The weathered wooden bench sits right at the edge, gray and worn from years of sea spray and sun exposure.
And there is Zayn. He sits on the bench with his back to me, shoulders silhouetted against the blazing orange sunset. He’s absolutely still, staring at the ocean like he’s been frozen there for hours. All around him, roses are blooming in wild profusion—dusty pink ones, deep purple ones, crimson ones the color of old wine, cascading over the rocky ground and clinging to the cliff edge. The roses he planted months ago, now erupting with color and fragrance in the fading light.
I stop walking, courage faltering. All my rehearsed words evaporate.My bravery starts to fade. For one cowardly moment, I consider turning around, walking away, acting like I never came here at all.
But then he turns around, like he sensed my presence.
His eyes find mine, and everything stops—my breath catches, my heart freezes, time suspends. His expression shifts from surprise to something fragile, breakable. Hope.
“Sophie,” he breathes, my name barely audible over wind and waves.
My feet move of their own accord, carrying me up the final section of path. I’m trembling, and I don’t know if it’s from the climb or from seeing him like this. Probably both.
The bench seems impossibly distant one moment, then suddenly I’m standing right before it. Zayn rises when I approach, but doesn’t approach. Giving me space. He always does.
“I went to your house,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. “You weren’t there.”
“I needed to think.” His eyes search mine, looking for answers. “I come here when…”
He trails off, but I understand. I know what this place represents. This is where we come when we’re missing each other. When we need to remember. When everything hurts too much.
The wooden bench is still warm from the sun when I sit down. Zayn hesitates before joining me, making sure to leave space between us.
We don’t speak. The only sounds are waves crashing against rocks far below and wind rustling through the roses. The air smells like salt water and sweet petals mingling—a scent unique to this spot, where these stubborn little roses thrive in soil that should be too harsh for anything beautiful to survive.
The sun hovers low now, transforming the ocean to liquid gold. It’s breathtaking, but I can barely register it. All I can focus on is him beside me—the rise and fall of his chest, his hands resting on his knees, the tension radiating from his shoulders.
