"You think I'm bothering her?"
"Aren't you?"
I met his eyes. "I just want her to know I'm still here."
"What's the point of that? Six years ago, you vanished completely. Now you come back saying you're still here—what do you think she'll think?"
I clenched my fists, then released them. "I know six years ago was my fault. I'm not trying to justify anything. I've spent these six years looking for her. Never gave up. I'm not here to bother her. Just to let her know I still love her."
He watched me, eyes complicated. "Do you know how much pain she was in when she gave birth alone? Do you know she worked three jobs to afford formula and collapsed one day outside a convenience store? Do you know she carried Tommy tothe hospital in the middle of the night by herself, with no one to help?"
"Mr. Vincent, not all mistakes can be forgiven. Some damage lasts a lifetime. You understand?"
I felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, the pain almost suffocating.
"I know what I owe her." I lowered my head, voice hoarse, barely audible even to myself. "That's why I'll spend the rest of my life making it right. Dr. Mark, I'm grateful for the care you've given them these six years. I respect your feelings for Casey. But understand this—I love her. I've looked for her for six years. Never thought about giving up. This time, I'm not letting go."
He looked at me. Something complex flickered in his eyes, finally settling into cold indifference.
"Then we'll see what Ella chooses." He walked past me and drove off.
The engine started. Taillights blinked twice at the corner, then disappeared completely into the night.
I didn't move. The streetlight stretched my shadow long, all the way to the building's wall. I looked up at that third-floor window. The light was still on, curtains drawn, shadows occasionally passing. That man had just walked out of there, carrying that air of ease, carrying all the familiarity he'd built up with her over all this time.
He could openly press that buzzer. He could laugh while lifting Tommy overhead. He could sit at her dining table, eat her food, listen to her talk, and watch her smile. And I could only stand here, where the streetlight didn't reach, like a thief.
I thought about what Mark said. She gave birth alone. Worked three jobs until she collapsed. Held Tommy and went to the hospital in the middle of the night. Those images surfaced one after another. Those six years I wasn't there, she'd shouldered all of it alone.
I opened my eyes and looked at that window again. Light still on. No one visible. I didn't know what she was doing right now. Didn't know what she was thinking.
Mark was right. Not all mistakes can be forgiven. I didn't know if she'd forgive me. Didn't know if she'd possibly give me another chance. That man had things I didn't—steady companionship, Tommy's affection, that relaxed smile on her face. He was better suited for her than I was. Could give her the life she wanted. He hadn't done anything wrong. And I'd missed everything.
I leaned against the wall for a long time. Long enough that my legs went numb. I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt the corner of a Post-it. I'd forgotten to leave it tonight. Still in my pocket. I thought about the beach days ago—me teaching Tommy to surf, her watching from a distance without stopping us. I thought about those empty bento boxes lately.
That's right. She hadn't chosen yet. If she really liked Mark, she would have chosen already. If she wanted me gone, she had a thousand ways to let me know. But she hadn't.
I gripped that Post-it and looked up at the window again. I didn't know who she'd choose in the end. Didn't know if she'd forgive me. But I knew—if I walked away tonight, if I gave up because I thought I couldn't measure up to him, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.
Chapter Sixteen
Casey
I stood in the shadows of that narrow third-floor balcony, watching Paul ride his bicycle below.
These past few days, he'd completely changed tactics. The old Paul—always rolling up in luxury cars with suited lackeys trailing behind. Now he was trying to squeeze himself into my small, threadbare world in a way that was almost masochistically clumsy.
I watched him park the bike under a dingy streetlamp, pull a canvas bag from the basket, and set it carefully on my front steps. No more expensive truffles or air-shipped delicacies. Just lunch he'd made himself. Sometimes coconut rice balls that weren't quite round. Sometimes mango crepes with the sweetness all wrong.
I knew he'd spent hours in that cramped kitchen with the busted exhaust fan, face covered in flour. I'd heard he signed up for the native community's coconut harvest, working alongside those rough locals, rope tearing blisters into his palms.
After leaving the food, he'd just stand there, staring up at my place forever. Cheap shirt, hair wild in the ocean breeze—a messhe never would've tolerated before. I hid behind the balcony railing, feeling that iceberg I'd built over six years start melting in the warm, salt air.
I'll admit it—there were moments I almost ran downstairs to tell him to stop torturing himself. This version of him felt more real than the one who used to look down on everyone. I even had a dangerous thought. If he could actually keep this up, maybe I could try believing him again.
My brain screamed to keep my distance, but my eyes wouldn't leave his sweat-soaked back. That raw effort almost made me drop my guard.
But every time I touched the doorknob, that cold night six years ago came flooding back. The last thread of reason yanked me back hard. All I could do was stand in the dark and watch him pedal that beat-up bike into the night.
