The next few days passed in a blur.Not the chaotic kind that leaves you dizzy, but the kind that feels like you're holding your breath underwater—waiting for the surface to come back into view, but not sure how long your lungs will last.I kept busy. Overly busy. Back-to-back meetings, inbox zero by noon, editing pitch decks like my life depended on it. Chelsea noticed, of course.“You’re doing that thing again,” she said one afternoon, arms crossed as she leaned against my office door.“What thing?”She gave me a look. “The ‘I’m fine because I’m drowning in productivity’ thing.”I sighed and rubbed my temples. “What else am I supposed to do, Chels? Sit at home and overanalyze every word Jeff’s ever said?”“Maybe not every word. Just the recent ones.” She paused, then added softly, “Did he try to explain more?”I nodded. “He texted. Called once. I didn’t answer.”“Demi…”“I know.” I cut her off before the lecture could begin. “I’m just... trying to figure out if this is something I w
When Demi fell asleep on the couch, her hand still wrapped in mine, I sat there for a long time just watching her breathe. The tension that had weighed on my chest for days—hell, maybe weeks—finally cracked. Not disappeared, but cracked. Enough for me to feel like maybe, just maybe, we were moving in the right direction again. But I knew better than to believe the battle was over. Because peace, especially with Demi, wasn’t something you stumbled into. It was something you built—brick by brick, truth by truth. The next morning, I cooked her breakfast. Nothing fancy, just scrambled eggs, avocado toast, and the coffee she liked. She looked surprised when she came into the kitchen wearing my shirt, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You made coffee?” she mumbled, hair a soft mess of curls. “You deserve more than just coffee,” I said with a smile. “But yeah. It’s a start.” She blinked at me like she didn’t expect gentleness. And that? That broke something in me. “You okay?” I asked
I wasn’t expecting to find the photo.It was wedged between the pages of a book on Jeff’s shelf—one I had given him for his birthday three years ago. I hadn’t been snooping. I was just looking for something to read while he took a call in the other room. My fingers slipped, the spine cracked open, and there it was.A picture of Jeff and Stella.Not just any picture.They were in Paris.Smiling. Kissing. Happy.The background was the Eiffel Tower, but it wasn’t a tourist snapshot. It looked… intimate. Like someone had captured them mid-moment, mid-laughter, mid-love.I froze, the book dangling in my hands.When Jeff walked back into the room, phone still pressed to his ear, his smile faltered the second he saw my face.“What’s wrong?”I held up the photo without a word.He stopped in his tracks. “Where did you…?”“In your book. My book.”He ran a hand through his hair. “Shit. Demi, I didn’t even know that was there.”“It was in a book I gave you,” I said, my voice low and tight. “Was t
The following morning, I woke up before the sun. It wasn’t something I did often, but the weight in my chest from the night before hadn’t quite lifted. Jeff was still asleep, one arm draped lazily across the space between us, his breathing soft and even. For a moment, I just lay there and watched him—the peacefulness of his face, the tiny furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared, even in rest.It was hard not to remember how things used to be. How mornings like these once felt effortless, warm. Back then, I’d wake up wrapped in his arms, and we’d talk about everything and nothing until we had to rush out the door, usually late. But this was different. Now there was a thin veil of fragility hanging between us. Like we were both afraid to move too fast, afraid it would all crack and shatter again.I slipped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. I needed coffee—and space to think.By the time Jeff woke up, the apartment smelled like hazelnut roast and toasted bagels. He
The next morning arrived with a grey drizzle tapping lightly against the windows, like the sky was trying to tiptoe around my mood.I barely slept the night before.Jeff hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t tried to come in. And I was grateful for that. But when I emerged from the bedroom, bleary-eyed and bracing for awkward silence, I found the apartment empty.He was gone.No note this time. No text.The sting of that absence clung to me longer than I cared to admit.At work, Chelsea hovered by my desk with one of her signature lattes, trying to act casual. “Saw the blog post. You okay?”I shrugged. “Define ‘okay.’”She sat on the edge of the desk. “Want me to make a voodoo doll? I’m pretty crafty with yarn and petty rage.”That got a small laugh from me, even if it was weak. “No voodoo. Not yet.”“You believe him?” she asked gently.“I want to,” I said honestly. “I just… I don’t know. It’s like every time I let myself lean in, something happens and I’m reminded why I pulled away in the first
The next morning, I woke up to the soft golden light bleeding through my blinds and the faint hum of the city coming to life. It should’ve been peaceful. But instead, my mind was already restless.The text.The rumors.The way my heart had stuttered in my chest when Jeff told me Stella was still talking about us like we were a plot point in her drama.I rolled over and stared at my nightstand.The charm bracelet still sat there. I hadn’t worn it again.Not because I didn’t want to.But because… I wasn’t sure if I could. Not yet.My phone buzzed with a notification. A photo.From Jeff.It was of the café where we used to get Sunday breakfast—the tiny one with chipped tile floors and the grumpy barista who somehow always gave us an extra croissant.Jeff: They’re repainting the windows. Looks like they’re trying to be all… modern now. Kinda weird without you here to roll your eyes at it.I stared at the message longer than I needed to. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.Me: Change is
One afternoon, I walked past his office—his door was cracked open, and I caught the tail end of a phone call.“No, Stella. I told you—this isn’t appropriate anymore. I’m not doing this with you again.”His voice was low, controlled, but I still felt something cold settle in my chest.“I care about you as a human being, but that’s it. Stop trying to twist this. Demi and I—”I didn’t hear the rest. I walked away before he could notice me lingering like a bad habit.That evening, when he messaged me about dinner, I stared at the text for a solid five minutes before replying with a vague: Rain check. Dead tired.It was only half a lie.I was tired. But not from work.From wondering if he was still trying to fix things with her. From wondering if his boundaries were as firm as he made them sound.From wondering… if I’d ever stop feeling second to someone who wasn’t even in the room.Chelsea noticed my mood the second she barged in that night with Thai food and a bottle of wine.“You’re spi
The days that followed the pause were heavy.Not in the dramatic, fall-on-the-floor kind of way—but in the quieter, lonelier moments. Like the spaces between breaths when your chest aches, and you don’t even realize you’re holding in the air.Jeff didn’t text.And I didn’t reach out either.We weren’t playing a game. We were honoring the space. The silence. The need to be apart to see if we still belonged together.But every morning, my fingers hovered over my phone. Wondering. Waiting. Wishing.Chelsea noticed, of course.“Are you okay?” she asked over brunch that Sunday, sipping her orange juice while eyeing me over the rim of her glass.“Define okay,” I muttered, poking at my eggs like they owed me answers.She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “You’re allowed to be hurt. Confused. Angry. But you’re also allowed to miss him.”I looked at her, my throat tight. “What if I made a mistake?”Chelsea didn’t flinch. “Then you unmake it. But you don’t do it because you’re lonel
Around noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart
I didn’t go far. Just to the small park down the block from Jeff’s condo unit—the one with the crooked benches and a fountain that hadn’t worked since spring. I sat there, my coat tight around me, watching the early evening swallow the sky whole.I didn’t cry. Not really.I was too tired for tears. Too wrung out from constantly stitching together the pieces of us, only to watch them come loose again.I pulled my phone out, stared at the blank screen. No texts. No calls. And maybe that was the point. Jeff had said he wouldn’t stop trying, but he hadn’t come after me. Not this time.Maybe he was learning to give me space. Or maybe he was just as exhausted as I was.A gust of wind tore through the branches above, scattering brittle leaves across my boots.Why does love feel like this sometimes?Not soft and soothing, but raw. Like walking barefoot on broken glass, hoping every step doesn’t cut too deep. Hoping the bleeding stops before the next fight.But despite everything, I didn’t wan
Around noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart
By Monday, we were back in the city.Jeff dropped me off at my place, and though we kissed goodbye with a promise to see each other soon, something lingered between us—something unspoken and tense, like a storm hovering just beyond the horizon.I tried to shake it off as I stepped into my apartment. I unpacked slowly, letting the quiet settle around me. But my thoughts refused to sit still.Why now? Why was Stella suddenly trying to reappear? And why did Jeff hesitate before telling me?It wasn’t fair—he’d done so much to regain my trust. He’d been showing up, loving me in all the right ways. But one whisper from the past, and the walls I’d slowly let fall started climbing back up.I turned on some music, something soft, just to quiet the noise inside my head. And that’s when my phone buzzed.It was a message. From an unknown number.Unknown: "You can believe him if you want. But you should know he came back to me once before. Right after the first time you left."I stared at the scre
There’s something strangely intimate about folding laundry with someone you love. Not the kind of love that’s still wrapped in red ribbons and candlelit dinners, but the kind that shows up in the quiet domesticity of Sunday afternoons—barefoot, soft music in the background, mismatched socks everywhere.Jeff held up one of my oversized sweaters, the sleeves drooping like tired arms. “This still smells like that coconut shampoo you use.”I glanced up from the pile of towels. “I haven’t used that shampoo in months.”“Must be haunted,” he smirked, then tossed it gently to my side of the bed.I laughed, but it came with a soft ache. This was good. Easy. Comfortable. Almost too comfortable.Maybe that’s why it blindsided me when the tension returned—sharp and unexpected like stepping on glass in a room you thought was safe.It happened that evening.We were cleaning out the hallway closet when Jeff’s phone buzzed on the console table. Once. Twice. Three times.He didn’t reach for it.I woul
Demi's POVI stared at the message long after Jeff disappeared down the stairs, heading toward the beach. The wind outside had picked up, brushing against the glass like a warning. I hated that this had happened—now, of all times. Things were just starting to feel steady again.I didn’t even know how he’d gotten my number. I’d deleted it all—his texts, his name, his presence from my life the moment I realized he was a distraction from what I really wanted.From Jeff.And now he comes crawling back, like the past didn’t already do enough damage.I grabbed my phone and typed a response, my fingers moving fast and sharp.“Do not contact me again. This is inappropriate and unwanted. I’m with someone I love—don’t ruin what little decency you have left.”Send.Block.Delete.My chest heaved as I placed the phone face down on the railing of the porch. The waves crashed in the distance, but I couldn’t hear them over the thud of my heart. This wasn’t fair—not to Jeff, not to me, not to what we
Chelsea popped her head into my office later that day.“You look like someone ran over your optimism.”“Not now, Chels.”She walked in anyway, plopping down on the chair across from me. “Okay. Spill.”I told her.Everything.From the breakfast to the journal to the half-confession that landed like a gut-punch instead of a step forward.Chelsea didn’t say anything right away. Then: “Do you regret telling him?”“No. But I hate that it hurt him.”“Demi, listen.” She leaned forward. “You did what most people wouldn’t have the guts to do. You gave him the full picture. He asked for proof you were in this for real, and you gave it. He needs to sit with it, sure—but that doesn’t mean he’s leaving.”“I know,” I said quietly. “But I can’t help feeling like I poked a hole in something just as it was starting to feel whole again.”“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe that hole is where the light gets in.”I groaned. “Did you just quote Leonard Cohen at me?”She grinned. “Absolutely.”I managed a smile,
Demi's POVIt wasn’t the phone call that broke me.Not really.It was the pause. That flicker of hesitation in Jeff’s eyes. The microsecond where I saw him debate whether to tell me the truth. It was the weight of everything we were trying to rebuild pressing on one fragile moment.And I hated that it felt familiar.That split-second uncertainty—the one that made me question whether I was still the girl who could be forgotten. Set aside. Replaced.But I didn’t spiral. Not this time.Because I’d promised myself something too: that I wouldn’t run anymore. That I would stay. That I would speak instead of shut down.Even if it hurt.The morning after he blocked Stella, we went through the motions like nothing had happened.Coffee. Shower. Quiet music playing from my phone as I tied my hair up.But my stomach still twisted when I caught him staring at me—like he was trying to read between the lines of my silence.“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently.I thought about lying. I re
Trying is one thing.But staying?That’s the real test.And for the next week, Jeff and I tried.Not in grand, sweeping gestures. Not in dramatic confessions under the rain or fairy tale moments. But in the quiet decisions—the daily check-ins, the shared silences, the soft compromises that slowly stitched us back together.I started trusting him again. Not all at once, but in fragments. Like handing him pieces of a puzzle that used to be whole, asking him to rebuild without the picture on the box.And Jeff?He never once complained.He didn’t push when I asked for space. He didn’t flinch when I brought up Ethan, or Stella, or the silence that had almost swallowed us whole. He listened. He showed up. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was walking alone.Until Thursday.We were supposed to meet at the gallery.My newest commission piece had just been installed, and Jeff offered to help me with the lighting setup before the weekend preview. It was a simple ask—sh