Chapter 11
670words
It was my first night alone in our shared space. Afternoon light poured through the massive windows, painting warm golden patches across the floor. I walked barefoot through these pools of sunshine, feeling the comforting warmth rise through my soles.
Nothing here belonged to my past. No trace of Julian lingered in these rooms. Everything was fresh, unspoiled, brimming with future possibilities.
Leo had been swamped with work lately. Our contact had dwindled to brief check-ins, but unlike before, I wasn't obsessively checking my phone. Instead, I painted, decorated our apartment, strolled through Central Park—learning to be a whole person with my own rich inner life.
A week later, a massive package arrived from Paris. The sender: Leo's mother.
I was kneeling on the floor, wrestling with the packaging when I heard the apartment door open.
I turned to see Leo standing there, rumpled from travel.
I don't know how long he'd been watching me. The warm hallway light caught his face, highlighting the sharp line of his nose and the small mole I'd grown to love. He'd lost weight since I'd last seen him, but his eyes shone with startling intensity.
"You're back!" I scrambled to my feet, rushing toward him to take his luggage.
But he held onto it. Looking down at me with an unreadable expression, he asked:
"Don't you know how to type?"
"What?" I blinked in confusion.
"Do you know how phones work?" A hint of hurt colored his voice, though he tried to hide it.
"Of course I do."
He gestured for my phone. When I offered it, instead of taking it, he wrapped his warm hand around mine. His fingers guided mine to open my messaging app and find his contact that I'd pinned to the top.
Still holding my hand, he guided my fingers to type, one character at a time:
[Husband, when are you coming home?]
[I miss you.]
"But I—" I looked up, suddenly aware that I'd somehow ended up in his arms. Our breaths mingled as that familiar cedar scent I loved enveloped me.
"Haven't you missed me?" He leaned down until our noses nearly touched, his voice rough with emotion.
"Yes." The word escaped as barely a whisper.
His smile broke through like sunshine after winter—achingly tender. "You've learned to type now, haven't you?"
He bent down and kissed me.
"Next time," he murmured against my lips, "just send it like this."
Leo had flown back just to spend the weekend with me. His work wasn't done, and after cooking dinner, he settled in the living room with headphones for an international conference call.
Not wanting to disturb him, I retreated to the bedroom to finish unpacking his mother's package.
Inside I found a weathered, slightly rusted metal box.
The metal container held a thick notebook and a collection of dried-out Pilot pens in various colors.
Curious, I opened the notebook.
The first page revealed slightly immature but distinctive handwriting, repeating the same sentence over and over:
[I must forget Clara.]
My breath caught.
I turned the pages one by one.
[I must forget Clara.]
[I must forget Clara.]
[I must forget Clara.]
[I must forget Clara.]
[I must forget Clara.]
Throughout the notebook, spanning sophomore to senior year, his handwriting matured and changed, but that futile mantra remained constant—thousands upon thousands of repetitions.
After graduation, the entries stopped, leaving many blank pages.
I flipped to the final page. There, in the small space at the bottom, were two lines in newer, more mature handwriting.
They read:
[Forget it.]
[It's simply impossible.]
The date marked was the day after my twentieth birthday—when he'd returned from abroad and silently followed my car home, watching over me.
Tears splashed onto the yellowed pages. Not tears of heartbreak this time, but of a bittersweet realization wrapped in profound joy.
I reached for a fresh pen.
With trembling fingers, I carefully added a line beneath his:
[Happy wedding, Leo.]
