A woman who tries her best—cheerfully, stubbornly, with a paperclip for a zipper pull, without a net, without a backup plan, without anyone standing behind her catching the pieces.
And somewhere in watching that, my walls came down so quietly I didn't even hear the demolition.
She didn't break my rule.
She made it unnecessary.
“WEST!” I hear a female gasp on my left.
Familiar. Not a casual fan.
Caroline Baker, my ex-fiancée, ten feet away.
She looks… good. Not the curated glamour I remember—the kind that came with careful lighting and an awareness of who was watching. This is different. Settled. She looks like a woman who sleeps well and doesn't check her phone at dinner.
She's carrying a toddler on her hip—dark curls, tiny sneakers, one fist gripping a stuffed elephant by one ear.
West," She repeats. Surprised but not uncomfortable.
"Caroline."
We stop. Two adults in an airport, history between us that ended with explosion but now eroded.
"Where are you headed?"
"A few places."
"Work?"
I nod.
"Still playing?"
"For a few more months."
She shifts the toddler higher on her hip. The kid regards me with the frank assessment of someone who hasn't learned politeness yet.
"Seeing anyone?"
"Yeah." No hesitation. No deliberation. The word lands with the ease of something I've been saying in my head for weeks.
"Serious?"
"Feels like it."
Her smile is genuine. Small. "That's good, West."
She means it. And I believe her.
There’s no nostalgia.
The toddler slips from her mother’s arms and lands steady on her feet.
She makes a beeline for my carry-on, tiny fingers wrapping around the leather tag with surprising strength—the determined focus of someone whose entire world is whatever’s directly in front of them
I crouch.
Untangle her grip carefully, finger by finger, the way you handle something precious and slightly unpredictable.
