chapter 8

The rain was relentless, pounding against the pavement in silver sheets. I turned, and there he was—Edward Jackson—standing in the storm like a ghost dragged back from the past. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his white shirt soaked through, clinging to him. He held an umbrella above me, knuckles bone-white around the handle.

"Take it," he rasped, voice raw, like it had been scraped across gravel.

I didn't move. I just looked at him, the rain blurring the space between us. "Edward, what do you even want?"

He didn't meet my eyes. His gaze was fixed somewhere far away, out into the storm. "I just… wanted to see you."

"I'm doing great," I said flatly, stepping out from under the umbrella. The rain instantly drenched my hair, cold needles on my skin. "So great I don't need your umbrella—or your pity."

He froze. The umbrella tilted in his hand, rainwater streaming down his arm. Drops rolled down his jaw, catching on his trembling lips, and for a second, he looked like he might cry.

But I felt nothing. Not hate. Not anger. Not even sadness. He looked like a stranger I used to know—someone whose name had long since faded in my mind. The only thing I felt was the cold.

After that, he started showing up again. Quietly. Relentlessly.

He left food at the library front desk every morning—braised pork, congee, all the dishes I once loved. He never waited around to see if I'd eat them.

I didn't.

Once, I caught him at the counter, clutching the empty container, guilt etched across his face. "Maria," he stammered, "I've been practicing—trying to get it right. I wanted to—"

"Edward." My voice was soft, but it sliced through his words, "You don't have to learn anymore. I stopped liking those things a long time ago."

It wasn't cruelty. It was truth. It was like how I used to crave sugar, until one day I couldn’t stand the taste anymore. Even strawberry cake started to feel unbearably sweet.

He flinched like I'd slapped him. And in that silence, I realized I wasn't angry anymore. I was done. Entirely done.

A week later, I heard he'd collapsed in his flower shop. His mother called me, her voice breaking through sobs. "Maria, please—he did this to himself because of you. He hasn't eaten, hasn't slept. Can't you just go see him?"

I stared at the phone for a long time before answering. "He's like this because he chose it. Just like before—when he chose to leave me for Daisy, and walked out on our wedding."

After I hung up, I looked out the library window. Across the street, his sunflower display blazed in the rain, gold petals bright against the gray sky. For the first time, they didn't look beautiful—they looked desperate.

When he was discharged from the hospital, he stopped bringing food. Stopped leaving umbrellas. He just stayed in the shop, trimming stems, wrapping bouquets, his movements slow and deliberate, like each flower was a confession.

Once, I passed by and saw him helping a little girl pick a bouquet. "Choose the brightest one," he told her with a small, gentle smile. "Your mom will love it."

The warmth in his eyes was real. But it wasn't mine anymore.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

I started to believe this quiet coexistence could last forever—him with his flowers, me with my books. Two parallel lives that would never touch again.

Until one afternoon, a notebook slipped out from between the shelves I was sorting. My name was scrawled across the cover in his handwriting.

He must've placed it there when I wasn't around.

I opened it.

"She left today. Didn't look back."

" Turns out she's allergic to cilantro. I never knew."

"Her stomach's weak. No more cold drinks. There's no one to remind me now."

"Saw her smile in the library today. Still beautiful. But it's got nothing to do with me anymore."

Each page was a wound disguised as a memory. He had written down every regret, every small thing he'd once ignored, as if words could undo the past.

On the last page, in shaky ink, was one final line:

"If I could do it over, I'd hold her hand tight and never let go."

My eyes burned, but no tears came. I closed the notebook, left it on the windowsill where the sun poured in, then tossed it in the trash.

Some things, when said too late, are no different from silence. Some people, once lost, are never found again.

That evening, I crossed the street and walked into his shop. The bell above the door jingled softly.

He looked up and froze. His hands trembled as he tried to grab wrapping paper. "Wh-which bouquet would you like?"

"The biggest one."

He wrapped it carefully, his fingers clumsy and unsure. When he handed it to me, his voice was unsteady. "Maria…"

I looked at him over the bouquet of golden petals. "They're beautiful," I said softly.

Hope flickered in his eyes like the brief flare of a dying match. "Then… maybe we can—"

"I'm moving," I said quietly, cutting him off. "Heading north. There's a library job waiting for me."

The light vanished from his face. His smile faltered, "Is it because of me?"

"No." I shook my head, "I just want to see snow."

The truth was simpler: the sunlight here was too warm. It kept melting the walls I'd built. It kept making me remember.

He didn't move. Just stood there, watching me.

I turned to leave.

Behind me, I could feel his gaze like the weight of all the years we'd lost. But I didn't stop. Not once.

By the time I reached the corner, I turned for a final glance.

He was still standing in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of his shop. In his hands was a bouquet of sunflowers he never got to give away. The sunset stretched his shadow long across the pavement. A gust of wind swept through, and a few petals broke free, scattering through the air like shards of gold.

They looked like broken sunlight.

So what?

I'm not turning back.

He's changed—gentler now, quieter. But my love for him has already turned to dust.

I hope the next woman he meets never walks my path. I hope she's loved the way I never was.

Because me—

I'm finally free.

The End