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Charlotte stood and picked up the empty coffee cup. “Rotting is allowed. I support rot. But only temporarily. Your spirit’s still in there, Mags. You just have to make space for it to come back.”

I nodded. “I’ll get up.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

As she stepped out of the room, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, every muscle protesting like I’d just run a marathon in my sleep. I looked around at the half-unpacked overnight bag, the mountain of tissues on the nightstand, the smear of mascara on the pillowcase.

God, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe being sad wasn’t the whole story. Maybe I could move and cry at the same time. Maybe I could grieve and grow.

Maybe I could survive this.

I stood up. Wobbly, but upright.

It was a start.

A kickboxing class sounded like the right decision. Like Charlotte had said, I needed to move. To breathe deeply. So, I did just that.

I was halfway through round two with the punching bag when my knuckles started to throb, but I didn’t stop or slow down. Sweat dripped down my spine, soaked through the band of my sports bra, and still I kept swinging. Left jab. Right cross. Step back. Repeat.

I needed this.

Every hit felt like an exhale. Every hard slam of my fist into the bag made the ache in my chest feel a little less suffocating. I’d been bottling it up—grief, anger, heartbreak, confusion—and this was the first time I’d given myself permission to let it out and stop pretending I was okay.

Because I wasn’t.

I missed Roman. That didn’t surprise me. What was surprising, though, was the fact that even through all this missing and hurting and unraveling, I still wanted what was best for him. And if that meant Willow—if she made him feel safe and seen and whole—then I could learn to be happy for him.

Even if it shattered me in the process.

I paused, panting, and rested my hands on my knees, letting my arms dangle loose. The bag swayed slightly in front of me like it was waiting for round three. Maybe later.

I looked up and⁠—

Oh my god.

Roman.

He looked completely out of place in his hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling slightly around his ears, holding, of all things, a bundle of pottery cradled in his arms like a newborn.

“Sorry,” he said, breathless, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not here to sign up for kickboxing, though honestly, I might need to after this.”

“Roman,” I croaked, frozen in the middle of the mat.

He stepped forward. “I don’t want a fake mate,” he said loudly, voice echoing off the studio walls. “I want you. Only you.”

Gasps from the women to my left. A little giggle from the instructor. Roman crossed the rest of the distance between us, holding out the bundle he carried.

“I brought these,” he said. “You saw them at the farmer’s market weeks ago. You picked them up and put them back. You said you didn’t need them.” He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing the two handmade ceramic urns I’d loved and walked away from. The ones with the blue-gold glaze and the delicate floral designs.

“I figured you could use them,” he said. “You know. For one of two purposes.”

I raised a brow, heart pounding. “Which are?”

“Well, either you can use them for my ashes,” he deadpanned, “because I’ll die inside without you.”

A few people gasped again. One lady went “Aww.”