What am I going to say to him? How do I explain disappearing? How do I ask him to trust me after everything?
I didn't have answers. Didn't have a plan.
All I had was seven days and a desperate, impossible hope that somehow, some way, I could find the truth before time ran out.
The coffee machine gurgled and hissed, filling the kitchen with the bitter smell of too-strong brew.
I poured a cup with trembling hands, not bothering with cream or sugar.
Stood there in my dirty pajamas, in my lonely apartment, drinking scalding coffee that burned all the way down.
And tried to figure out how to save the man I loved from my own family.
Seven days.
The clock was already ticking.
After draining my coffee cup—scalding, bitter, perfect—I picked up my phone.
Stared at it for a full minute.
Just call him. You have to call him.
My finger hovered over his contact. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.
What if he doesn't answer? What if he's still blocking me? What if he hates me now?
I pressed call before I could lose my nerve.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Please pick up. Please.
"You're alive."
His voice hit me like a physical blow. Relief and pain and longing all tangled together until I couldn't breathe.
"Yes." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Yes, Quentin. We have a lot to talk about."
"We do." His tone was unreadable. Careful. Guarded.
Not warm. Not cold. Just... controlled.
My chest constricted.
"Can you come over tonight?" The words tumbled out too fast. Desperate. "I promise to explain everything. Please. I can explain—"
"Yes. I'll be at your place at eight."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to silence.
Did that just happen? Is he coming? Does he want to hear me out or—
My thoughts spiraled.
I didn't know whether to smile with joy or break down sobbing. His voice had given nothing away. No anger. No forgiveness. Just flat acceptance of a meeting.
