The Last Bookstore by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Literary Fantasy

 

The Last Bookstore

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 582

The scent of aged paper and forgotten dreams clung to the air inside The Last Bookstore, a quiet refuge in a city that had long since traded pages for pixels. Rows of books stood like silent sentinels, their spines worn smooth by the hands of those who still believed in stories. Amelia, the store’s guardian in all but name, ran a dusting cloth over a stack of hardcovers, her fingers lingering over the raised lettering as if greeting old friends.

The door creaked open. A gust of Los Angeles air swirled in—hot pavement, coffee, and car exhaust—before the hush of the shop swallowed it whole. A young man hesitated at the threshold, clutching a book as if it might vanish. His fingers curled around the cracked leather cover, his knuckles white. He was no older than twenty-one, his wide eyes filled with something just shy of fear.

He approached the counter in cautious steps, placing the book between them like an offering. “I… I need to know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this real?”

Amelia tilted her head, studying him. Not just his nervous stance or the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes—but the way he held the book, like something precious yet foreign. She had seen this before. The ones who came looking for something they couldn’t name.

She turned her gaze to the title. The Whispers of the Ancients. The gold lettering had dulled with age, the spine barely holding together. She traced the cover with one finger, feeling the grooves left by time.

“Real?” she murmured. She met his eyes then, steady and knowing. “If the world forgets something, does that make it any less real?”

The young man swallowed hard, but he didn’t look away.

Amelia exhaled and opened the book. The pages creaked, the ink faint but legible. As her eyes skimmed the words, the air in the shop seemed to shift—thicker, charged with something just beyond sight. The dust motes hanging in the light from the front window slowed, suspended as if caught in an invisible current.

Then, a whisper.

Not loud, not even entirely sound, but something that pressed against the edges of the senses, curling like smoke into the ears.

The magic is not gone.

The young man stiffened. His breath hitched. The whisper curled again, soft and insistent.

It is waiting to be rediscovered.

A faint glow pulsed from the book’s pages, as if something within had stirred awake. The young man’s mouth parted, his fingers twitching toward the light before he caught himself.

Amelia smiled then—small but warm, a rare thing. “See?” she said gently. “It was never lost.”

She closed the book, the glow fading, the whisper dissolving into the silence of the store. Carefully, she placed it back in his hands. “Now,” she said, voice softer, “go find your own magic.”

The young man stood there for a moment, clutching the book as though it had weight beyond paper and ink. Then, with something new in his expression—something unshaken by logic—he nodded.

As he stepped out into the city, his silhouette vanished into the hum of the digital world. But Amelia knew. He wouldn’t be the same.

She let out a slow breath and turned back to the shelves, running her fingers along the rows of forgotten stories. Somewhere in these pages, more whispers waited. More seekers would come.

And as long as they did, The Last Bookstore would stand.

Through My Fingers by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

Through My Fingers

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,755

The first time Michael saw Naomi, she was slipping between crowds like smoke, her dark curls catching the light of the setting sun. He had been leaving a coffee shop, distracted by a voicemail he didn’t want to hear—his mother’s voice, clipped and urgent, reminding him of a dinner he had no intention of attending—when she passed him. Just a whisper of sandalwood and something sweeter, lingering in the air like the afterthought of a dream.

By the time he turned, she was already across the street, her laughter spilling into the dusk. It wasn’t the loud kind that demanded attention, but something softer, a private amusement shared with the person beside her. Michael couldn’t hear what was said, but the way she tipped her head back slightly, the way the neon signs reflected in her eyes, made him wish he had. The moment stretched—too brief, too fragile—and then she was gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of pedestrians.

For weeks, she existed in glimpses. A silhouette framed against the glow of a bookstore window, fingers drifting over the spines of novels she never bought. Once, he watched her pull a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages with an absentminded curiosity, only to slide it back into place and leave without looking back. Another time, he caught sight of her slipping into a jazz lounge, her figure vanishing behind a closing door just as a slow trumpet began to play. He lingered outside longer than he meant to, listening to the music she was lost in.

She was an echo, a flicker in the corner of his eye, always half a step ahead. A name he almost asked about but never did.

Then, suddenly, she was real.

They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he, dragged by a coworker who insisted he “needed to get out more”; she, indulging a cousin who had already abandoned her in favor of someone new. The air inside was thick with bass-heavy music, perfume, and the mingling scents of expensive cologne and spilled cocktails.

Michael had been nursing a drink he didn’t want, scanning the room for an excuse to leave, when he spotted her. Naomi, leaning against the balcony railing, the city stretching behind her in glittering indifference. The amber liquid in her glass caught the glow of a nearby lantern, casting warm reflections against her skin. She didn’t look bored, exactly—more like she existed just outside of everything happening around her, untouched.

For a long moment, he only watched. Not out of hesitation, but because she looked like she belonged there, in that space between presence and absence, as if the world shifted just slightly to accommodate her. And then, without turning, she spoke.

“You’re always looking.”

Her voice was low, threaded with quiet amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to say something first and, when he hadn’t, decided to break the silence herself.

His throat tightened. “At what?”

She tilted her head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and smirked. “At me.”

A slow heat crept up his neck, but he held her gaze. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her stay in this moment a little longer, but all he could think about was every time he had seen her before—half-formed memories of a woman who had always been just out of reach.

Michael hadn’t realized he’d been chasing her until he finally caught her.

Naomi was not a woman who could be held.

Some nights, she pressed against him, her body fitting against his as if she had always belonged there. Her fingers traced the curve of his collarbone, delicate and unhurried, like she was memorizing the shape of him. She whispered about constellations, their Greek names rolling off her tongue like poetry, her breath warm against his skin. Orion, cursed by the gods. Cassiopeia, punished for her vanity. She spoke of myths like they were memories, as if she had lived them herself, and Michael listened, entranced, as though holding onto every word might keep her from fading.

Other nights, she disappeared. Days would pass without a word. His messages sat unread, his calls rang unanswered. Then, just as suddenly, she’d return—slipping through his door with the scent of rain in her hair, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as if she had never been gone. If he asked where she had been, she would only smile, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had last night. Do you ever think about leaving the city? She existed in the spaces between presence and absence, and Michael, despite everything, let her.

He told himself it was enough. That he understood her silences as well as her laughter. That he could accept the way she vanished, the way she never truly belonged to any moment for long.

But understanding something doesn’t mean you can live with it.

One night, she stirred beside him, her breath soft against his shoulder. He had been half-asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, when her voice, quiet but certain, cut through the darkness.

“Michael,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

His eyes opened. He turned his head, but she was already staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What do you mean?”

She exhaled, the sound barely more than a sigh. “I think some people are ghosts before they die. Drifting, unable to stay anywhere for too long. Always belonging to something else.”

Michael reached for her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She let him, but her grip was loose, barely there, like the ghost she claimed to be.

“Is that what you are?” he asked.

Naomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.

It unraveled slowly, like the fraying edges of a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

The first time she left without answering his calls, he told himself she just needed space. He remembered thinking that everyone had their own battles, their own moments of retreat. It wasn’t the first time she had withdrawn, and he could almost convince himself that it was normal. They’d been together long enough for him to know that Naomi had a way of disappearing into herself when the world became too loud. He could give her that, he told himself. Time.

The second time, the silence stretched longer. His messages went unread, his calls unanswered, but he convinced himself it was just a phase. Maybe she had gotten busy, maybe she was dealing with something she didn’t want to burden him with. He tried to fill the empty space with rational thoughts, telling himself it was temporary. But doubt began to gnaw at him, that small flicker of unease that had once been a whisper now turning into a murmur of worry.

By the third time, he stopped calling. The quiet in the apartment where they used to share small moments felt heavier now. Each unanswered call made it harder to convince himself that this was just another bump in the road. He felt like he was losing her in pieces, and the weight of it pressed down on him, settling in his chest like a stone. He let the silence stretch further, hoping she would break it, but she never did. And in the stillness, he realized he had already given up trying to reach her.

One night, standing outside her apartment, he knocked twice. Then a third time. His knuckles rapped against the door, but it was as if he was knocking on the very thing that separated them—time, space, the shifting currents of something he couldn’t grasp. The hallway smelled of rain and dust, the air thick with the hush of something already lost. His breath came in shallow, measured intervals as he waited for the sound of footsteps, the turning of the lock.

But there was nothing.

He knew she was inside. He knew she wouldn’t open the door. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side, could feel the weight of her presence, the distance between them. He waited, hoping for some kind of sign, some gesture that would tell him she hadn’t completely disappeared. But the moments stretched, and still, there was no answer.

Eventually, he turned away, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the hallway. It was a hollow kind of walk, one that felt as if he had already said goodbye. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t had the chance.

The last time he saw her, it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t anything. Naomi had stood in his doorway, half-turned toward the night, her expression unreadable, a shadow clinging to her face that he couldn’t place. He wanted to ask her where she was going, what had happened, what had changed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never been good at asking the right questions when it mattered most.

She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, fingers almost gripping it, as if she was weighing something heavier than the night between them. Then, without a word, she left.

Days later, when he finally went looking for her, she was gone. Her number disconnected, her apartment emptied, the space she once filled now vacant and silent. The emptiness gnawed at him, each step he took through the city streets feeling more like a search for a ghost than a person.

The only thing left was a note slipped beneath his door. It was simple, almost too simple for the weight it carried.

"You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay."

Michael read it twice. Then once more. The words blurred together as his eyes stung. There was nothing more to it—no explanation, no apology, no closure.

The ink at the end was smudged, as if she had almost changed her mind, as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted to be held. She had been right there, just on the edge of turning back, of letting herself be caught. But she never did.

As if, for one brief moment, she remembered what it felt like to be wanted, to be loved. But that wasn’t enough to hold her. Naomi was the wind—felt, but never kept. Her presence was like the air itself—always around him, but impossible to hold, to contain. And love, however deep, however honest, had never been enough to keep her from drifting away.

The Fire Between Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction / Twin Flame

 

A soulmate is someone you feel a deep connection with, often considered a compatible partner with a separate soul, while a twin flame is believed to be the other half of your soul, meaning you can only have one twin flame, but can have multiple soulmates throughout your life; the twin flame relationship is often described as more intense and challenging, pushing you to confront your deepest self, while a soulmate relationship tends to be more harmonious and supportive. 

Key points to remember:

You can have many soulmates, but only one twin flame. 

The Fire Between Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,011

Warren never believed in past lives.

But when he saw Aisha, he wondered.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because she looked at him like she knew his secrets before he spoke them.

But because something in his bones whispered, It’s her. Again.

She stood at the counter of a coffee shop, drumming her fingers against the glass case, waiting. And when she turned, their eyes met.

A flicker. A pull.

Deja vu.

Aisha blinked, lips parting slightly, like she felt it too.

And Warren?

He forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Three months later, she had a key to his apartment.

Not because they talked about it—because they didn’t.

Because it was always supposed to happen this way.

Aisha never let him hide.

She saw him in ways that unsettled him, stripped him bare without touching him.

One night, she stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes steady. “You love the idea of love, Warren. But real love? It asks something of you. And you don’t like that.”

His stomach tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, searching his face. “You write about love like it’s something outside of you. Like a thing you can observe without feeling it. But when it’s real—when it’s messy—you pull away.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.

But he couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t.

Terry met Warren at a poetry reading. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was one of those last-minute, why not? decisions.

Then he stepped up to the mic.

And he spoke.

Not about love—at least, not in the way most people did. He spoke about hunger. About a yearning that stretched across lifetimes.

She watched him, felt the words settle in her chest like something familiar. And when he glanced her way, there was a quiet hum beneath her skin.

Not a jolt. Not a fire.

A thread.

That night, after the event, she lingered near the door just as he walked past. He paused, looking at her the way people look at something they don’t expect but can’t ignore.

And then he said, “You ever feel like some things are supposed to happen?”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Yeah.”

And that was the start of everything.

Warren and Terry never rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth.

Conversations that stretched into the early hours. Walks through the city when neither of them wanted to be anywhere else. A comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

One night, they sat on her couch, the air between them thick with unspoken things.

She leaned against his shoulder, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You’re waiting,” she murmured.

His jaw tightened. “For what?”

“For a sign.” Her voice was steady. “For something to tell you it’s okay to move on.”

His chest ached.

Because she was right.

And still, he didn’t kiss her.

Even when the silence between them felt like an invitation.

Even when he wanted to.

Because she wasn’t his to want.

Not yet.

Aisha left on a Thursday.

Not in the heat of an argument. Not with yelling or broken things.

With a suitcase by the door and her hands clenched into fists.

Warren stood there, heart hammering, trying to think of the right words.

“I love you, Warren,” she said softly. “But love shouldn’t feel like a war.”

He swallowed hard. “Aisha—”

She shook her head, exhaling shakily. “You don’t get to talk me out of this. Not this time.”

His fingers twitched. A part of him wanted to reach for her, to pull her back.

But love wasn’t supposed to be chains.

So he didn’t.

And that was the worst part.

Because he already knew—

Some loves aren’t meant to be kept.

Some are meant to break you open.

Terry didn’t ask questions when Warren showed up at her door.

She stepped aside, let him in, let him sit on her couch with his head in his hands.

After a long moment, he whispered, “I lost her.”

Terry didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I told you so.

She just reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist, anchoring him.

His breath hitched.

And when he finally looked at her, she met his gaze, steady and sure. His eyes looked tired, searching. “I don’t know who I am without her.”

“You’re you, you're still here,” she murmured.

His exhale was shaky.

And this time, when he leaned in, she didn’t hesitate.

She met him halfway.

It was different with Terry.

No firestorms. No wreckage.

Just warmth.

She didn’t demand the parts of him he wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t pull him into the depths just to see if he could survive.

She was a place to rest. A place to breathe.

And he loved her for it.

But some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, he felt it.

The phantom ache.

Because some loves don’t leave.

Even when they’re gone.

Aisha called him a year later.

Not by accident.

She never did things by accident.

“Hey,” she said.

Warren closed his eyes, the sound of her voice settling over him like an old song. “Hey.”

“I saw your book,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

Silence.

Then, softly, “Do you ever think about me?”

His chest tightened. He didn’t need to ask if she still thought about him; because he knew she did.

“Yes,” he said.

A breath.

Then she exhaled, something almost like a laugh. “I always knew we weren’t supposed to last.”

His fingers curled around the phone. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Are you happy?”

His gaze drifted across the room, where Terry sat reading, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the quiet presence that had become his peace.

And he thought about all the ways love could exist.

“I am,” he said.

Aisha sighed, soft and knowing. “Good.”

And he knew that was the last time they’d speak.

Because some people come into your life to stay.

And some come to set you free.

Until the Last Bloom by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Contemporary / Literary Fiction

 

Until the Last Bloom

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,301

Lena knew something was wrong when Eric stopped reaching for her in the mornings.

For years, she had woken to the comforting ritual of his warmth curling toward her, his arm draping lazily over her waist, his breath soft against her shoulder. Even when he was half-asleep, his touch had been instinctual—an unspoken promise that, no matter what, he was there. But lately, that quiet reassurance had faded.

At first, she convinced herself it was exhaustion. He was getting older. Everyone slowed down eventually. But she couldn’t ignore the other signs. The way he hesitated when buttoning his shirts, his fingers fumbling over the small plastic discs. How he paused before signing his name at the grocery store, his grip uncertain, letters wobbling. The way his hands sometimes shook when he reached for his coffee, as if the effort of holding on had suddenly become too much.

This morning, the change was even starker. He didn’t just move slowly—he didn’t move at all.

He lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he had to concentrate just to keep breathing.

“Lazy morning?” she teased, brushing a hand over his arm, hoping to stir some reaction, some flicker of the man she knew.

It took him a few seconds to respond. He blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away. “Guess so.”

The pause was long enough to make her heart clench.

She waited for him to stretch, to yawn, to throw the blankets off with his usual half-hearted grumble about getting old. But he didn’t move. His hands, usually restless in the mornings, remained still on the bedspread, fingers lightly curled.

A chill settled in her stomach.

She forced a smile. “I’ll make coffee.”

Usually, by the time she poured his cup, she would hear his slow, steady footsteps behind her. He’d come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck—one of those soft, lingering kisses that made her forget, for just a moment, the creeping weight of time.

But this morning, the bed stayed full.

And the kitchen stayed quiet.

The doctor said the words gently, but they still landed like a stone in Lena’s chest.

Parkinson’s disease. Progressive.

She barely heard the rest—the explanations, the treatment plans, the slow unraveling of certainty. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air thick with something unspoken.

Eric sat beside her, hands clasped in his lap, nodding like he had already made peace with it. As if this diagnosis was just another thing to endure, another battle to fight quietly. But Lena knew better. She had seen the way he hesitated before lifting his fork, how he’d flex his fingers under the table, frustration flickering across his face when they didn’t move the way he wanted. She had noticed how he no longer drove at night, how he gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly during the day.

He had known. He had known, and he hadn’t told her.

Because saying it out loud made it real.

She spent the rest of the appointment in a daze, nodding at the doctor’s words but barely processing them. By the time they got home, Eric looked exhausted. She should have told him to rest. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen and started cooking.

She made his favorite meal—pot roast, cornbread, sweet tea. The kind of food that had always made everything feel a little more bearable, like something warm and steady to hold onto.

But when she set the plate in front of him, he barely glanced at it.

“You should eat,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“I’m not hungry.”

The words came softly, but they might as well have been a slap.

Lena set her fork down with a sharp click against the plate. “Eric.”

He rubbed his temple, already looking exhausted by the conversation. “Lena, please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t do this.”

She stiffened. “Do what?”

His sigh was deep and slow. “Look at me like I’m disappearing.”

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but she wasn’t sure what he wanted her to see.

She swallowed hard. “Aren’t you?”

The silence between them was heavy, stretching across the table, filling every space that used to be easy.

Then, finally, he moved. His hand slid across the table, slow and deliberate, until it rested over hers. His grip was weaker than before—less certainty, less weight—but he still held on.

“We have today,” he said quietly. “That’s enough.”

Lena turned her hand over, curling her fingers around his, squeezing just a little tighter.

As if holding on could keep time from moving forward.

Spring came hesitantly—buds pushing through the soil, cautious and unsure, as if afraid winter might change its mind. The air still carried a lingering chill, but the sunlight lingered a little longer each day, stretching golden fingers across their porch in the evenings.

Eric sat outside most afternoons, wrapped in a blanket despite the warming air. His movements had slowed, and his body betrayed him in small, quiet ways—shaking hands, stiff muscles, the effort it took just to stand. But he still came to the porch, still watched the world unfold around him.

Lena was in the garden, her hands buried in the cool, damp earth. She liked the feel of it, the way it anchored her, made her a part of something bigger. She worked in steady rhythms—dig, plant, press, water—breathing in the scent of fresh soil, new life. Here, in this space, things made sense. Seeds became sprouts, sprouts became blooms. There was no hesitation in nature, no fear of what came next.

Eric’s voice broke the quiet. “You think the flowers will bloom early this year?”

Lena sat back on her heels, wiping dirt on her jeans. “Depends.”

“On what?”

She finally looked at him, really looked. His face was thinner than it had been last spring, the sharp lines of age and illness more pronounced. But his eyes—the same soft blue they had always been—still held that familiar glint of mischief, of knowing her too well.

“On whether you plan on sticking around to see,” she said.

His lips quirked, slow and steady. “You think I’d miss it?”

The way he said it—so casual, so certain—made something inside her tighten. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend that the tremor in his voice, the fatigue in his shoulders, meant nothing. That the seasons would stretch on indefinitely, bringing more springs, more blooms, more nights like this.

That evening, they stayed on the porch, watching the sky burn gold and violet before surrendering to darkness. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable, lived-in, like an old favorite song played at just the right volume.

Lena reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. His grip was looser than before, the strength fading little by little. But he still held on.

She exhaled. “Do you remember the first time we sat on this porch?”

Eric hummed, thinking. “Yeah. You told me you didn’t think you belonged here.”

Lena smiled, the memory blooming in her mind. “And you told me I’d always belong, no matter what.”

His fingers twitched against hers, a whisper of a touch. “Still true.”

She looked down at their hands, tracing the lines of his palm, feeling the faint, uneven pulse beneath his skin. She knew the day would come when his hands wouldn’t reach for hers at all. When his body would betray him in ways neither of them were ready for.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was still here.

And tonight, that was enough.

The Marriage That Wasn't by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance / Literary Fiction

 

The Marriage That Wasn't

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,208

It was 2:07 AM when Tamara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her breath coming slow and measured. The bedroom clock ticked—a sharp, rhythmic sound that drilled into the silence. Beside her, Greg’s back was turned, his breathing steady. Asleep. Or pretending.

She used to reach for him in the night, nestling into the warmth of his body. Now, the space between them stretched wide, a silent, invisible trench neither dared to cross.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. Outside, the wind rattled the window, but Greg didn't stir. Tamara swallowed. Had it been this way for months? A year? She tried to remember the last time they had spoken about something real—something beyond schedules, bills, the weather. She turned her head slightly, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Greg?" Her voice barely broke the stillness.

No answer.

She exhaled, pressing her lips together, then turned onto her side, mirroring his position. They were two bodies lying inches apart, yet the distance between them was immeasurable.

Once, they had talked about everything—how he liked his coffee black but sometimes added cream when he wanted to feel indulgent, how she hated the way the city sounded at night but loved the smell of rain on pavement. Now, silence was their only routine.

A lump formed in her throat. She closed her eyes and listened to the tick of the clock.

2:08 AM.

The night stretched ahead, long and empty.

By morning, Greg was already in the kitchen, standing by the counter, pouring his coffee into the travel mug Tamara had given him two Christmases ago. The navy-blue ceramic had dulled with time, scratches along the handle, a faint chip near the rim. It used to be his favorite—he once said it felt "just right" in his hand. Now, he never acknowledged it. Just like her.

The coffee machine hissed as it dispensed the last drops, filling the silence. Tamara lingered in the doorway, watching him move with mechanical efficiency. No pause, no glance in her direction. He didn’t say good morning. Didn’t ask if she wanted any.

She rubbed her arms. "Don’t forget—the light bill's due tomorrow."

Greg zipped up his coat, eyes on his phone. "I won’t."

That was it. Their daily exchange. Factual. Transactional. Cold.

Tamara clenched her jaw, swallowing back the words that burned at her throat. Ask me how I slept. Tell me you love me. Say anything real. But she already knew how this would go. Every time she reached for more, Greg would stiffen, his face turning to stone, eyes flickering with impatience—like she was an obligation instead of a wife.

She had tried once. Sat across from him at the dinner table, hands curled around her untouched plate, voice shaking as she said, I miss you. Told him how the silence felt heavier than any fight, how she wanted to be more than two people coexisting under the same roof.

He nodded, distracted. Took a bite of his food. "I’ll try harder."

That was six months ago. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.

Tamara handled the groceries, the bills, the doctor’s appointments, the house repairs. Greg handled his job, his phone, and occasionally, when the overflowing trash became unbearable, he’d take out a bag—always with a heavy sigh, as if it were some grand sacrifice.

When her mother got sick, Tamara spent sleepless nights coordinating with doctors, filling out paperwork, and making sure her mother had everything she needed. Greg never asked how she was holding up. He never even offered to drive her to the hospital. But when his car broke down, his call came in the middle of her work meeting, urgent and impatient.

“I need you to pick me up.” No hello. No Are you busy?

She whispered an apology to her boss and grabbed her keys.

By the time she got there, he was pacing outside the auto shop, phone in hand, barely acknowledging her as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Gonna be expensive,” he grumbled. “They say the alternator’s shot.”

She waited for him to say something else. How was your day? Are you okay? Anything. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Tamara used to believe love was about shared burdens—two people walking side by side, lifting together, making life easier for one another. But this? This wasn’t sharing.

This was her carrying everything while he walked ahead, hands free.

Tamara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Greg scroll through his phone. His face was bathed in the cold glow of the screen, eyes skimming whatever was more interesting than her.

“Greg,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Do you even like me anymore?”

His thumb paused mid-scroll. He looked up, blinking as if she had spoken in a language he no longer understood.

“Why would you ask that?”

She let out a breath, pressing her nails into her palm. “Because I feel invisible. Like I could disappear, and you wouldn’t notice.”

He sighed—deep and exasperated—rubbing his temples like she had handed him a chore. “Tam, I’m tired. Work is exhausting. Can we not do this tonight?”

She had heard that before. She would hear it again.

The silence settled, thick and unmoving.

That night, as Greg lay beside her, his back to her as always, Tamara stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The bed beneath her felt like stone. The space between them, an ever-expanding abyss.

Once, marriage had felt like an unspoken promise—of warmth, of partnership, of carrying the weight of life together. Now, it was a contract, binding her to a role that had lost all meaning. 

She turned on her side, staring at his unmoving silhouette. The man who had once memorized the way she took her tea now barely registered her presence.

As the clock struck 2:07 AM again, the truth settled in her bones.

She wasn’t in a marriage. She was in servitude.

And as she whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” the only response was the sound of Greg’s steady, oblivious breathing.

Maybe that was answer enough.

The morning after Tamara whispered her truth into the dark, something in her shifted. Not all at once, but like the first crack in a dam.

Greg went through his usual motions—shower, coffee, keys jingling in his palm—without noticing the packed suitcase by the door. Without seeing her sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug she didn’t bother to sip from.

"I paid the light bill," he muttered, glancing at his phone.

She exhaled, more tired than angry now. "That’s not enough, Greg. It never was."

He looked up then, his brow creasing. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Tamara pushed the mug away, stood, and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "It means I’m done carrying this marriage alone."

For the first time in years, his mask of indifference faltered. But it was too late. Tamara had already walked to the door, already felt the relief blooming in her chest.

She stepped outside into the crisp morning air. And for the first time in a long time, she felt weightless.

Shadows in Lawrenceville by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Romance

 

Shadows in Lawrenceville

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 984

Tina had always heard that the past had a way of haunting people, but she never expected it to follow her home on a humid Georgia night—wrapped in a crisp blue suit, standing under the same streetlight where they once planned their escape.

***

The air outside smelled of fried catfish, cut grass, and warm asphalt, thick with the low hum of cicadas. Tina pulled the strings of her hoodie tighter, head down, hoping the exhaustion from her double shift at the diner would drown out everything else.

But the past had other plans.

Glenn.

He leaned against the rusted gate of the old barbershop, hands in his pockets, his frame catching the dull glow of a flickering streetlight. Older. Sharper. The years had carved hollows into his face, the weight of time settled in his eyes.

Tina’s feet stuttered, her body catching up to her mind as her breath came short. It had been fifteen years. He was supposed to be gone.

Glenn stepped forward, the sound of his shoes against pavement far too familiar.

"TeeTee."

Her stomach tightened. No one called her that anymore.

Her voice came out low, cold. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Glenn exhaled, gaze steady. "Came back to make things right."

Tina let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Fifteen years too late for that."

His jaw tightened. "Maybe."

The last time she saw Glenn, they were seventeen, standing in this exact spot, whispering about leaving Lawrenceville behind. She had packed a duffel bag, heart racing with the promise of something bigger than this town. But when the time came, he never showed.

No note. No call. Just gone.

Tina had let the bitterness harden inside her, using it as armor. Glenn had left because he wanted to. Because she wasn’t enough to make him stay.

And now here he was, standing in front of her like time hadn’t carved a canyon between them.

Her arms crossed tight against her chest. "What, you think you can just show up, say sorry, and we’ll be good?"

Glenn’s throat bobbed as he looked down. "No. I don’t expect that."

"Good."

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Then Glenn pulled something from his pocket—a folded letter, yellowed at the edges. He held it out.

Tina eyed it like it might burn her. "What is that?"

"The truth."

Tina sat on the curb outside her apartment, fingers tightening around the paper. The cicadas had quieted, the air thick and unmoving.

She unfolded the letter.

"Tina,

If you’re reading this, it means I finally found the courage to face you.

I left because I had no choice.

That night, my father found out we were leaving. He didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Just sat me down at the kitchen table and smiled. Said if I tried to run, I wouldn’t be the one paying the price.

He meant you.

So I stayed. Took the bruises. Took the silence. Took everything, just to make sure he never touched you.

By the time I got free, I didn’t know how to come back.

But it was never you I wanted to leave behind.

Glenn."

Tina’s chest tightened, her pulse drumming against her ribs.

She had spent fifteen years hating him. Letting that hatred fuel her. And now—now she had to make room for something messier.

For guilt.

For grief.

For the love she never let herself admit was still there.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of the letter, her breath uneven. She wanted to tear it apart, throw it at him, scream that he should have trusted her, that they could’ve figured it out together.

But the truth of it settled in her bones.

Glenn had stayed to protect her.

And in doing so, he had broken them both.

Glenn was still outside when she emerged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His shoulders, once broad with teenage arrogance, now carried something heavier.

Tina held up the letter. “You should’ve told me.”

Glenn nodded. “I know.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

His throat bobbed. “That ain’t true.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Then why didn’t you take me with you?”

Glenn hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Because I knew you’d follow me into hell, Tina.” His voice was raw, like gravel dragged over pavement. “And I couldn’t let you.”

Tina looked away, fingers gripping the letter like it could anchor her.

For years, she had convinced herself she was better off without him. That he had abandoned her. It was easier than admitting how much it hurt.

But now, standing here, she realized something else:

Glenn had left to save her.

But he had never stopped loving her.

She swallowed, her voice quieter now. “Why come back?”

Glenn exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s dead.”

Tina blinked. “Your father?”

He nodded. “Stroke. A month ago. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

She studied him. He looked different now—not just older, but untethered. Like a man learning how to exist without a shadow looming over him.

He met her gaze. “Figured if I was ever gonna come back, this was my chance.” A pause. “My only chance.”

Tina traced the edge of the letter. Her pulse thrummed, a war between instinct and reason. The past couldn’t be erased. But maybe, just maybe, it could be rewritten.

She took a deep breath, let the words settle before speaking. “You still drink sweet tea?”

Glenn’s lips twitched, the first hint of something almost like a smile. “Depends. Yours or somebody else’s?”

Tina rolled her eyes, but her chest ached in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

She hesitated, then stepped back, holding the door open. Not a grand gesture. Not a promise. Just… a start.

“Come inside, Glenn.”

And for the first time in fifteen years, he did.

Eclipsed Radiance by Olivia Salter / Drabble / Contemporary

 

Eclipsed Radiance

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 100

In the dim light of the café, her face was a mosaic of contrasts—smooth ebony kissed by the golden glow of the setting sun, a harmony of shadow and brilliance. Her cheekbones rose like quiet peaks, her eyes deep as midnight oceans, reflecting truths he hadn’t dared to face.

He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, fearing his voice would shatter the fragile stillness she carried—the kind that softened the ache inside him. In her, he saw more than beauty; he saw a reminder of something he’d lost, the quiet grace that once made the world feel whole.

If He Was a Woman by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction

 

If He Was a Woman

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

If he was a woman, the thought struck him like a sudden gust as the subway lurched forward. Across the aisle, a man leaned too close to the woman beside him. She shrank, her knees drawn together, her shoulders curling inward. Headphones hung loosely around her neck, as though she'd been caught between wanting to block out the world and needing to stay alert to its dangers.

He shifted in his seat, deeply aware of his own sprawl: legs wide, arms draped over his knees, body unapologetically taking space. His eyes flicked to his reflection in the window, faint and distorted by the dim lights outside. Would he still sit this way if he were her? Would his body be his own, or would it feel like an offering the world kept trying to claim?

The train screeched to a halt, his stop. He stood abruptly, glancing at the woman as he moved to the door. Her shoulders were still hunched, her eyes fixed downward. He thought about saying something—what, though? Are you okay? Do you need help? The words felt clumsy, their weight more for him than for her.

He stepped off and climbed the stairs into the night. The cold air pressed against him, sharp and clear, but the thought stayed tangled in his chest. A group of men laughed loudly on the corner, their voices cutting through the quiet like glass breaking. Without thinking, he crossed to the other side of the street. Only after his feet hit the pavement did he realize how easily he had moved—without hesitation, without fear.

If he was a woman, would his breath have quickened? Would his hand have gone to his keys, the metal biting into his palm like a prayer? He looked back at the men briefly. Their laughter wasn’t meant for him, but he could still feel its edges.

At home, he dropped his bag by the door and sank into the couch. The quiet of the room pressed down on him. He stared at his hands—broad, rough, the hands of someone who never thought twice about how they gripped the wheel of a car or the edge of a bar. He flexed his fingers, trying to picture them differently: softer, painted nails catching the light, the hands of someone who might know how to braid hair or cradle a child. The image felt foreign, like it belonged to a stranger.

His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. A work email from his boss. He swiped it away without opening it. His mind drifted to the woman in his office, the one who always spoke deliberately, her words carefully weighed. She was sharp, brilliant, but he’d seen how often her ideas were interrupted, her voice lost in the noise of men claiming the space she carved.

He hadn’t done it himself, but he’d never stopped it either. The thought tightened in his chest. If he was a woman, would he know how to fight for his voice? Or would he have learned to let it go, to swallow his thoughts and wear a smile that didn’t reach his eyes?

He stood and paced the room, the question cutting deeper. If he was a woman, would he know how to scream? Not in the way he sometimes did into the quiet of his apartment, but a scream that filled the air and left a scar in the silence. Or would the world have taught him to bury it, to tuck it away like a secret, hidden even from himself?

The subway woman came back to him, her shrinking frame, her silence. What would she think of him? Not the man sitting across from her, but him—as he was, with all his good intentions that never seemed to leave his chest. Would she see an ally? Or just another man who noticed too late?

His mind shifted to his sister, his mother, the women he knew. They carried themselves not with fragility, but with a strength he couldn’t name, something unyielding despite its quietness. If he was a woman, would he find that strength? Would he take the sharp pieces of what the world handed him and build something whole from the wreckage?

The thought sat heavy, unmoving. He moved to the window and looked at his reflection again, faint but steady against the backdrop of the city lights. He hadn’t noticed before how his outline blurred at the edges, fractured by the uneven glass.

His hands gripped the sill, and he imagined the subway woman’s voice—what she might have said if she had looked up. Would she have asked for help? Would she have told him she didn’t need it? Or would she have said nothing, the weight of silence easier than risking the wrong words?

He let out a slow breath, his chest tightening as the thought settled into something sharper. If he was a woman, his life wouldn’t belong entirely to himself. It would be borrowed, shared, chipped away in ways he never had to consider. But maybe—just maybe—it would teach him to claim it piece by piece, to carve out space no matter how often it was stolen.

He turned from the window and sank back into the couch. The image of her lingered in his mind—her face tilted up this time, her gaze meeting his. Her expression wasn’t fear or anger, but something unreadable, something that left him wondering if she would ever trust someone like him.

The thought lodged deeper. It wasn’t understanding—not yet—but it was a beginning. And maybe that was enough.

The Bench by Olivia Salter | Literary Fiction | Short Fiction

 

The Bench

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,180

Miss Bright’s favorite bench was taken.

It wasn’t just any bench. It was her bench, the one shaded by the sycamore tree, perfectly positioned with a view of the fountain and the bustling paths of the park.

Now it was occupied by a young couple, oblivious to the invisible claim Miss Bright had staked on that spot. They leaned into each other, their laughter soft but insistent, like the hum of bees on a summer afternoon.

She stood a few feet away, gripping her handbag with both hands, her usual composure faltering. This bench wasn’t just a place to sit; it was part of her ritual, her anchor in the rhythm of her Sundays. Losing it left her adrift.

With a barely audible sigh, she turned and walked further into the park, her polished loafers crunching against the gravel path.

***

She finally found another bench near the carousel. It wasn’t the same. Here, the screaming of children spun endlessly like the carousel itself. The metallic jingles of its music mingled with the high-pitched cries of excitement and the occasional frustrated wail of a child denied a second ride.

Miss Bright sat anyway, smoothing her wool coat and adjusting the scarf around her neck. Her fingers brushed the brooch she always wore, a silver filigree piece her late mother had given her decades ago. It anchored her, a small piece of stability in an afternoon that already felt off.

From her new vantage point, she watched the park as she always did. The young mother chasing her toddler, her face a mixture of love and exasperation. The jogger in neon leggings, her pace slowing as she checked her phone. The saxophonist, eyes closed, pouring his soul into a tune Miss Bright couldn’t name but felt deeply.

And then, a group of teenagers sprawled on the grass caught her attention. Their laughter was sharp, their movements lazy but purposeful.

“She’s here every week,” said a boy in a gray hoodie, his voice just loud enough to reach her ears.

The girl beside him snorted. “What’s she even doing? Just sitting there like some park weirdo.”

Miss Bright stiffened. She wasn’t weird. She was observing. There was a difference.

Still, their words clung to her like a sharp music note.

***

She adjusted her scarf, a quick, nervous motion, as if the fabric could shield her from their judgment.

The park had always been her sanctuary. It was where she came to escape the suffocating silence of her apartment, to surround herself with life without having to participate in it. She had always believed that watching others was enough.

Lately, though, cracks had begun to form in that belief. The bench wasn’t just a spot to sit—it was a stage from which she observed the world. Without it, she felt exposed, unsure of her role.

The saxophonist shifted into a slower tune, his notes mournful, as if echoing her thoughts. She glanced toward the fountain, where an elderly man in a worn tweed coat fed pigeons. She recognized him—he was always there, scattering crumbs with the same slow, deliberate movements.

Today, he caught her eye. He nodded.

Miss Bright hesitated, then quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her handbag. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest. What if he tried to talk to her?

***

The carousel’s music screeched to a halt, drawing her attention. A boy, no older than six, ran past her, his red balloon bobbing behind him. He tripped, sprawling onto the gravel with a sharp cry.

“Tommy!” A woman in a beige trench coat rushed to him, her face tight with concern. She knelt, brushing dirt from his knees while he clutched the balloon string, tears streaking his cheeks.

“I told you to slow down,” the woman said, her voice a mix of frustration and worry.

Miss Bright felt an inexplicable urge to help. She reached into her handbag, fingers brushing against a folded handkerchief. But the thought froze in her mind. What if the woman didn’t want her help? What if she thought her interfering?

Instead, she stayed rooted to the bench, watching as the mother consoled her son. Their bond felt like something tangible, a connection Miss Bright had never known.

The woman glanced up, her eyes brushing over Miss Bright without recognition, and then turned back to her child.

The sharp pang in Miss Bright’s chest was unexpected.

***

Miss Bright couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood abruptly, smoothing her coat as if to erase the discomfort that clung to her. She walked toward the fountain, each step purposeful but unsteady, as though she were propelling herself forward without a clear destination.

“Leaving already?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see the man in the tweed coat watching her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression was kind but curious.

“I—” she began, her voice faltering. She wasn’t used to being addressed here.

“I see you here every Sunday,” he said, nodding toward the bench she had just vacated. “You always seem… thoughtful.”

“I like to watch,” she said, clutching her handbag tighter. “The people. The park.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s a good place for that. Mind some company?”

***

They sat together on the bench by the fountain, the pigeons scattering around their feet. The late afternoon sun bathed the park in gold, softening the edges of everything.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with possibilities.

“You know,” he said after a while, tossing a few crumbs to the pigeons, “I come here for the same reason. Watching. Listening.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “It’s easier here. Out there”—he gestured vaguely toward the city skyline—“it all feels too fast, too loud. Here, it slows down. People slow down.”

She found herself nodding. “I used to teach. English. But since I retired…” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “It’s been quiet.”

“Quiet can be heavy,” he said simply.

They talked then—about small things. The pigeons. The saxophonist’s music. The way the park changed with the seasons.

His name was Mr. Lowry, and he had been coming to the park for years, ever since his wife passed.

***

As the sun dipped below the trees, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Mr. Lowry stood. “Well, Miss Bright,” he said, brushing crumbs from his coat, “it’s been a pleasure. Same time next week?”

She looked at him, startled by the question. She wasn’t used to being invited. But there was something about his voice, his presence, that felt like an open door.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like that.”

He smiled, tipping his hat slightly before walking away.

Miss Bright stayed on the bench for a while longer, watching the last of the children leave the carousel and the saxophonist pack his instrument.

The park felt different now. Not just a stage, but a part of her story.

For the first time in years, she looked forward to next Sunday.

Lupus by Olivia Salter / Poem

Lupus

By Olivia Salter

It starts with a twinge, a creeping ache,
A war inside you that won’t break.
Your body, your own, turns on its kin,
A quiet storm that rages within.

They call it the wolf, but it doesn’t howl—

It creeps, it gnaws, it stalks, it prowls.

No scars to trace, no wounds to find,
Just battles waged in flesh and mind.

The butterfly blooms on fragile skin,
A mark of beauty and ache within.
It whispers softly, “This is your fight,”
A fleeting glow in the endless night.

Some mornings feel like a heavy chain,
Each joint a knot, each step a strain.
You swallow the pills, their bitter trace,
A quiet hope in a weary space.

“They say you look fine,” but they can’t see,
The pain that’s locked where no one can be.
You fake a smile, deflect their care,
But the wolf is there, it’s everywhere.

Doctors talk in measured tones,
Their answers vague, their charts unknown.
You wait, you nod, you play the game,
But the wolf still prowls—it’s never tame.

It’s not just the pain; it’s what it steals,
The stolen time, the life it repeals.
The dreams delayed, the plans undone,
The moments lost before they’ve begun.

Loneliness cuts like a jagged blade,
A sharp reminder of what’s been frayed.
But then you find others who know this fight,
Who share their strength, their flickering light.

Some days, the wolf will pull you low,
Its shadow dark where hope won’t grow.
But even in darkness, there’s still a spark,
A stubborn flame that defies the dark.

You learn to cherish what the wolf can’t take—
A laugh, a walk, a moment to wake.
These little victories, small but true,
Become the strength that carries you.

It’s not fair, it’s not right, it’s never clear,
Why some endure year after year.
But still you rise, despite the cost,
To claim the life the wolf thought lost.

Some days you cry, some days you rage,
A battle fought in a wordless cage.
But even in tears, you still remain,
A quiet force against the pain.

The wolf is fierce, but so are you,
You learn to fight with what you do.
Through grit and grace, you find a way,
To turn the dark into your day.

This is for those who carry the weight,
Who rise each morning to face their fate.
Your fight, your fire, your quiet might,
Outshine the wolf with endless light.

The wolf may prowl, but it cannot claim,
The spirit burning in your name.
For every battle, every tear,
You’re proof that hope can persevere.

Beneath the Skin by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Romance / Lupus

Beneath the Skin

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 6,636

The mug slipped from Anita’s hand, shattering against the kitchen floor in an explosion of ceramic and dark liquid. She cursed under her breath, her wrist throbbing as though tiny needles had embedded themselves deep into the joint. Coffee seeped into the grout lines, forming little brown rivers that branched out like veins.

Her body felt glued together with glass, every movement threatening to break her apart. She crouched awkwardly, ignoring the shooting pain in her knees, and grabbed a rag from the sink. As she wiped the mess, her fingers betrayed her, trembling until she dropped the rag into the puddle.

“Dammit.”

The word came out as a whisper, as though the walls might reprimand her for saying it out loud. She leaned back against the cabinet, her breath uneven. Moments like this had become routine, her body’s quiet rebellion against even the simplest tasks.

Her eyes drifted to the window above the sink. Outside, the world looked so normal—trees swaying gently in the late autumn breeze, sunlight spilling golden over the rooftops. Kids rode their bikes down the street, their laughter cutting through the stillness.

Inside, her world felt stagnant.

The phone on the counter buzzed, startling her. She glanced at it but didn’t move. It buzzed again. Slowly, she pulled herself up, using the counter for support, and grabbed the phone. Gloria.

She hesitated, watching the screen light up and dim with her mother’s persistence. On the third buzz, it stopped, replaced by a voicemail notification.

Anita sighed. She didn’t need to listen to know what it said. Her mother’s messages were always the same—a mixture of love, worry, and a touch of smothering that made Anita’s chest tighten. She would call back later. Maybe.

Turning away from the phone, her gaze landed on the windowsill where her paintbrushes sat in an old jar. Their bristles were stiff with dried paint, their once-bright handles faded and dusty. Her stomach twisted as she looked at them.

She hadn’t painted in over two years. Not since the diagnosis.

***

It had started with an ache in her joints that wouldn’t go away. Then came the fatigue, a crushing exhaustion that made her feel like she was sinking into the earth. But the rash on her cheeks was the final blow—a red, butterfly-shaped brand that spread across her face like a cruel reminder she couldn’t hide.

The doctor’s words had been clinical, rehearsed: “You have lupus, an autoimmune disease. It’s chronic, but manageable.”

Manageable.

No one had prepared her for the weight of that word. The endless pills, the flare-ups that came without warning, the isolation. “Chronic” meant forever, and forever felt like a death sentence.

Anita shook off the memory and turned back to the mess on the floor. She grabbed the rag again, wringing it out before scrubbing at the coffee stains. Her wrist protested with each motion, the pain shooting up her arm. She gritted her teeth and kept going until the floor was clean.

By the time she finished, she was too exhausted to even think about dinner. She sank into the chair by the window, staring at the paintbrushes again. They seemed to mock her, a reminder of the person she used to be.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t her mother.

Miles.

The name hit her like a punch to the chest. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly two years. Not since everything had fallen apart.

“Hey, it’s Miles. I know it’s been a while, but I was thinking about you. How are you doing?”

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. The memory of their last conversation surfaced unbidden. She’d been in the hospital after a particularly bad flare. He had visited once, sitting awkwardly by her bedside, his hands in his lap.

“I don’t know what to say,” he’d admitted. “This is… a lot.”

She had nodded, understanding what he didn’t say. It was a lot. Too much. He hadn’t come back.

Now, two years later, here he was, popping back into her life like nothing had happened.

She typed a response, deleted it, then typed another. Finally, she settled on something neutral.

“I’m okay. Taking things one day at a time.”

She hesitated before pressing send. Was that even true?

***

The reply came quickly, the soft buzz of the phone breaking the stillness.

“Glad to hear that. I know I don’t deserve to just pop up like this, but I’ve missed you, Anita. If you ever want to talk or hang out, I’m here.”

Anita stared at the message. Missed me? The words hit her wrong, like a scratchy sweater she couldn’t pull off. Anger bubbled beneath her exhaustion, sharp and biting.

Where had he been when she needed someone to drive her to appointments? When she sat alone in waiting rooms, shivering in one of those thin paper gowns? When even getting out of bed felt like scaling a mountain?

Her finger hovered over the delete button, but something stopped her. Instead, she placed the phone face-down on the table, as though that would silence the storm churning inside her.

She tried to focus on anything else—the ticking of the kitchen clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator. But her gaze kept drifting back to the brushes.

***

The next morning, Anita woke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Sunlight poured through the blinds, carving streaks of gold across the room.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked as she answered.

“Good morning, baby.” Her mother’s voice was warm, but Anita could hear the tension beneath it. “Did you get my message?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t call back.”

“I meant to, Mom. I just…” She trailed off, staring at the ceiling. She could picture Gloria sitting at the kitchen table, her coffee untouched, her brow furrowed with worry.

“You just what?” Gloria’s tone softened. “I’m not mad, Anita. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

A beat of silence.

“Baby,” her mother said gently, “you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Anita closed her eyes, the lump in her throat making it hard to breathe. Gloria always had a way of cutting through her defenses, seeing the truth she tried so hard to hide.

“I know,” she whispered.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, Gloria broke it.

“I made some gumbo last night. I’ll bring you a bowl later.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Don’t thank me. Just eat it.” Gloria’s voice brightened, and Anita could hear the smile in her words. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the call ended, Anita stayed in bed, staring at the phone in her hand. Miles’ message from the night before still sat unanswered.

***

By mid-afternoon, the smell of Gloria’s gumbo filled the kitchen. Anita leaned against the counter, her wrist wrapped in a heating pad as she stirred the pot. It was a small comfort, the warmth seeping into her skin.

The paintbrushes still sat on the windowsill, catching her eye every time she turned.

Finally, she grabbed one.

The wood was cool against her fingers, the dried paint rough and uneven. She ran her thumb over the bristles, half-expecting them to crumble. Her grip tightened, her wrist twinging in protest, but she ignored it.

From the closet, she pulled out an old sketchbook. The pages were yellowed at the edges, the cover speckled with paint. She opened it to a blank page, the sound of the spine cracking loud in the quiet kitchen.

Her first stroke was hesitant, a shaky line of pale blue that barely clung to the paper. She stared at it, unsure what to do next. Her hand hovered over the page, the brush poised, but no inspiration came.

What’s the point?

She set the brush down and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. The kitchen felt too quiet, too empty. She grabbed her phone without thinking, opening the message from Miles.

“I don’t know if I can just pick up where we left off,” she typed. “Things are different now. I’m different.”

She hit send before she could overthink it.

The reply came quickly.

“I know. But I want to get to know who you are now. If you’ll let me.”

Anita read the message twice, her chest tightening. She didn’t trust it—not entirely—but there was something in his words that made her pause. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was loneliness. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Her hand brushed against the sketchbook. She picked up the brush again, this time dipping it into a deeper color—a bold red.

The line she painted was smoother, more deliberate. She didn’t know what she was making, but the act of creating felt like a small victory.

Her wrist ached, her body tired, but she kept going.

***

The knock on Anita’s door came early that evening, sharp and deliberate, like the person on the other side had something important to say. She hesitated, staring at the door as if it might open on its own.

Miles had texted earlier: “Can I stop by? Just to talk.”

Her immediate instinct had been to say no, to put up the wall she’d been leaning on for years. But something in her chest—a flicker of anger or curiosity, she wasn’t sure which—made her reply with a short: “Fine.”

Now, standing frozen in the living room, she questioned that decision.

The knock came again.

Anita pulled the door open, the chain still in place. Miles stood on the other side, his familiar frame silhouetted against the fading light. He was taller than she remembered, or maybe just broader. His hoodie hung loosely over his shoulders, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than she expected.

She didn’t respond, her eyes scanning his face for something—regret, guilt, anything.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

She hesitated before closing the door just enough to unlatch the chain, then opened it wide.

The last time Miles had been in her apartment, it had been different—filled with light, her art on every wall, laughter echoing between them. Now it felt like a stranger’s space, dim and hollow, with bare walls and an air of neglect.

He stepped inside, glancing around. “It’s been a while.”

“You think?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.

He nodded, letting the weight of her words settle. “Yeah. I deserve that.”

Anita crossed her arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “Why are you here, Miles? What do you want?”

He hesitated, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “I wanted to see you. To explain.”

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Explain what? That you left when things got hard? That you disappeared when I needed you the most?”

“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he said, his voice tight. “You were going through so much, and I—”

“You what? Got scared? Felt overwhelmed?” She shook her head, her anger rising like a wave. “Do you think I wasn’t scared? Do you think I wasn’t overwhelmed? But I didn’t get to leave, Miles. I had to stay and deal with it. Alone.”

He flinched, her words hitting their mark.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” she snapped. “You don’t just get to walk back in here and act like everything’s fine.”

“I’m not trying to act like that,” he said, stepping closer. “I know I messed up, Anita. I know I hurt you. But I’ve been thinking about you every day since I left.”

“Thinking about me?” She scoffed. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? You don’t get points for feeling guilty, Miles.”

He looked down, his jaw tightening. “You’re right. I don’t. But I still care about you. And I hate myself for leaving. I just… I didn’t know how to help.”

“I didn’t need you to help,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just needed you to stay.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging between them. Miles looked at her, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite name. Regret? Sadness? Love?

“I’m here now,” he said finally.

She laughed again, but this time it was softer, tinged with exhaustion. “Yeah. You’re here now. Great timing.”

“I know I don’t deserve another chance,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m asking for one anyway.”

Anita looked at him, her arms tightening around herself. Part of her wanted to scream at him, to push him out the door and lock it behind him. But another part—the part that still remembered the way he used to make her laugh, the way he used to look at her like she was the only person in the world—hesitated.

Her eyes flickered to the sketchbook on the table, the faint lines of blue and red visible from where she stood.

“You don’t get to walk back in and fix this with words,” she said finally. “It’s going to take more than that.”

“I know,” he said.

She took a deep breath, her chest tight. “If you want a chance, Miles, you’re going to have to prove it. And I’m not going to make it easy.”

“I don’t expect it to be easy,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” she said, turning toward the kitchen. “Because I’m still mad at you.”

“Fair enough,” he said, following her.

As she grabbed two bowls from the cabinet, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you still like gumbo?”

His smile widened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Anita set the bowls of gumbo on the small kitchen table, the steam curling into the air between them. Miles slid into the chair across from her, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of disturbing some fragile balance.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she sat down, her spoon poised over her bowl. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence filled with the soft clink of metal against ceramic.

“So,” she said finally, breaking the quiet. “What have you been up to for the past two years?”

Miles swallowed a spoonful of gumbo, his gaze fixed on the table. “Working. Thinking about how badly I screwed up.”

Anita arched an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

He sighed, setting his spoon down. “I’ve been trying to figure myself out. I started therapy last year.”

Her spoon paused mid-air. “Therapy?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his fingers tapping nervously against the table. “I realized I had a lot of stuff I hadn’t dealt with—stuff from my past, stuff about us. I didn’t know how to show up for you, and that’s on me. I let my fear get in the way.”

Anita leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Fear of what?”

“Of failing you. Of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. I didn’t want to make things worse, so I just… didn’t do anything.”

She stared at him, her emotions a storm of anger, sadness, and something she wasn’t ready to name. “You know how selfish that sounds, right?”

“I do,” he admitted, his voice steady. “And I hate myself for it. But I’ve learned a lot since then. About myself, about what it means to support someone. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to be better.”

She didn’t respond right away, her gaze dropping to the table. The anger that had fueled her for so long was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. Maybe it was because she could see the effort in his eyes, the weight he carried.

“Therapy, huh?” she said, her tone softening just a fraction. “What’s that like?”

He smiled slightly. “Hard. Messy. But worth it. My therapist doesn’t let me get away with any of my usual crap.”

Anita smirked despite herself. “Good. Someone needs to keep you in line.”

They fell into a tentative rhythm after that, the conversation flowing more easily than she expected. They talked about the little things—work, the news, even a funny story about a dog Miles had seen at the park.

For a moment, it almost felt like old times.

But the weight of their shared history lingered, unspoken but present.

***

After dinner, Anita leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed as she watched Miles rinse the dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“I want to,” he replied, glancing at her with a small smile.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t stop him.

As he finished and turned off the tap, he dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face her. “Thanks for letting me stay tonight. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” she admitted.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he added, his expression earnest. “I want to prove to you that I’m serious about this. About being here for you.”

Anita studied him, her heart warring with her head. “You don’t get to prove it with words, Miles. Actions. That’s what matters.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’m ready to do the work, no matter how long it takes.”

For the first time in years, she saw a flicker of the man she used to love—the man who had once been her partner, her safe place. But the wounds he’d left behind were deep, and trust wouldn’t come easily.

“I guess we’ll see,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with both hope and caution.

He nodded, understanding the layers in her words. “I’ll take whatever chance you give me, Anita. No matter how small.”

***

That night, after Miles left, Anita sat at her kitchen table, the sketchbook open in front of her. She picked up her brush and dipped it into a pot of deep indigo paint, the color rich and full of promise.

Her strokes were slow and deliberate, the lines forming shapes she hadn’t envisioned but felt right as they emerged. The act of painting felt like stitching something back together—not just the page, but herself.

She didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of something she thought she’d lost: possibility.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The first sign was always the heat, creeping up her wrists and elbows like invisible fire. By the time Anita woke, the ache had spread to her shoulders, a deep, grinding pain that no amount of stretching could shake. Her joints felt swollen, even though they didn’t look much different.

She rolled onto her side, staring at the sunlight pooling on the far wall. Morning light usually brought a soft kind of hope, but today it felt like a cruel joke. Her body was already screaming, and the day hadn’t even begun.

Pulling herself upright was a struggle, her muscles stiff and unwilling. She winced as her knees protested the motion, the sound of her own breath louder than she wanted it to be.

“You got this,” she muttered under her breath. It was a lie, but saying it aloud made it feel less like one.

In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection, her fingers trembling as she turned on the faucet. The warm water felt good against her hands, but it couldn’t undo the tightness in her wrists.

Her face looked tired—more tired than usual. Dark circles sat heavy beneath her eyes, and her skin had the pale, waxy look she hated. She reached for her moisturizer but knocked it off the counter instead, the bottle clattering to the floor.

“Damn it,” she hissed, bending down to pick it up. The movement sent a sharp jolt through her back, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

The lupus flare had arrived, and it wasn’t going to let her forget it.

***

By noon, Anita had managed to settle herself on the couch, a heating pad draped over her knees and her body wrapped in the softest blanket she could find. The remote sat beside her, untouched. Watching TV felt like too much effort.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her therapist had taught her that—said it would help with the stress, which sometimes made the pain worse.

The sound of her phone buzzing pulled her out of her haze. She reached for it slowly, every motion calculated to avoid sending another wave of pain through her body.

Mom: How are you feeling today, baby? Want me to bring something by?

Anita stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She hated admitting how bad it was. Hated feeling like a burden.

Me: Not great. If you’re already out, soup would be nice.

The reply came quickly.

Mom: Already on my way.

Anita set the phone down, her heart heavy. Gloria meant well—she always did—but accepting help felt like conceding defeat. And Anita hated losing to her own body.

***

Later that evening, the doorbell rang. When Anita opened the door, Gloria stood there, holding a plastic bag in one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.

“I thought these might cheer you up,” Gloria said, handing her the flowers.

Anita smiled despite herself. “Thanks, Mom.”

Gloria stepped inside, setting the bag on the counter. “How bad is it?”

Anita hesitated, then gestured toward the couch. “You can see for yourself.”

Gloria followed her gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. She walked over and gently touched Anita’s hand, her fingers brushing over the heating pad. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

“I’m fine,” Anita said, her voice unconvincing even to herself.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Gloria said, sitting beside her. “It’s okay to need help, Anita. It doesn’t make you weak.”

Anita swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. “It just feels like… like I’m fighting my own body. Like it’s me against me.”

Gloria nodded, her expression softening. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. But you’re not fighting alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got Miles, if you let him stick around. You’ve got people who care about you.”

Anita leaned her head back against the couch, her eyes closing. The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but Gloria’s presence made it feel a little less overwhelming.

“Thanks, Mom,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For always showing up.”

Gloria smiled, her hand warm against Anita’s. “That’s what we do. We show up for the people we love.”

As the evening stretched on, the two of them sat together, the quiet between them filled with an unspoken understanding. For the first time all day, Anita felt a flicker of relief—not from the pain, but from the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in facing it.

***

The following week, the flare hadn’t fully loosened its grip on Anita, but she pushed through as best she could. There were deadlines to meet, bills to pay, and no time for her body’s rebellion.

Miles had been texting every couple of days, nothing too heavy—checking in, asking if she needed anything. He didn’t push, and for that, she was grateful. But part of her was waiting for him to stumble, to disappear again like he had before.

So when he knocked on her door that Saturday afternoon, she wasn’t sure whether to feel surprised or suspicious.

“Hey,” he said as she opened the door. He held up a brown paper bag. “Thought you might want some company. And tacos.”

She smirked despite herself. “You’re lucky I like tacos.”

“I know,” he said with a grin, stepping inside.

As he unpacked the food onto the coffee table, Anita settled onto the couch, her movements careful and deliberate. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been earlier in the week, but it still hummed under her skin like a constant reminder.

Miles handed her a plate, his eyes flicking to her hands. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged, biting into her taco to avoid answering. He didn’t press, which was another point in his favor.

They ate in relative silence, the occasional crunch of tortillas or rustle of paper filling the gaps. But Anita could feel the weight of Miles’ gaze, his concern like a tangible thing between them.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said finally, setting her plate down.

“Do what?”

“Play nurse. Act like you care.” Her voice was sharper than she intended, and she winced, both from the words and the look on his face.

“I’m not acting,” he said quietly.

Anita sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s just… I’ve been here before, Miles. With you. And I don’t know if I can trust that you’ll stay this time.”

He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. And I know I don’t have the best track record. But I’m here now, Anita. I’m not going anywhere.”

She studied him, searching for cracks in his armor. “You say that, but what happens when it gets hard again? When I’m in pain, or too tired to do anything but exist? Are you still going to show up?”

His jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I can’t promise I’ll never mess up. But I can promise I’ll try. Every day. Because you’re worth it.”

The sincerity in his voice was disarming, and for a moment, Anita felt the walls around her heart tremble.

But trust wasn’t something she could give freely anymore.

“You’ve got a lot to prove,” she said, her tone softer but still firm.

“I know,” he said.

***

The next few weeks were a cautious dance between them. Miles stopped by every few days, sometimes with groceries, other times with takeout or a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked up at a roadside stand.

Anita let him in but kept her guard up. She accepted his help when she needed it but refused to let him get too comfortable.

One evening, as they sat on the couch watching a documentary about street artists, Miles reached for her sketchbook.

“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering over the worn leather cover.

She hesitated, then nodded.

He flipped through the pages slowly, his eyes lingering on each piece. “These are incredible, Anita. You’ve got such a unique style.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.

He paused on a half-finished painting of a woman’s hands, the knuckles swollen and red. The brushstrokes were raw and unflinching, capturing both the pain and the resilience.

“Is this…?” he began, glancing at her.

“Yeah,” she said, her gaze fixed on the screen. “It’s me.”

Miles closed the sketchbook gently, setting it back on the table. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. I’m here.”

Anita looked at him, her defenses wavering. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

She didn’t say a word, her thoughts too tangled to unravel. But later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his words echoed in her mind.

Maybe—just maybe—he really did mean it this 

***

The days blurred together in a haze of pain and cautious optimism. Anita's mornings were dictated by her body—whether her knees would allow her to climb out of bed, whether her hands would cooperate enough to hold a brush. Her lupus was a constant companion, one she resented but had no choice but to live with.

The evenings, though, belonged to her thoughts. And lately, those thoughts were tangled up with Miles.

She’d never been good at trusting people, not fully. Even before the lupus, she’d kept parts of herself locked away, afraid of being too vulnerable, too exposed. And after Miles had left the first time, that instinct had only grown stronger.

But now, as she sat in her tiny studio apartment surrounded by half-finished canvases, she couldn’t ignore the small flicker of hope he’d reignited.

“Why now?” She whispered to herself, the words heavy in the quiet.

Why had he come back? Why was he trying so hard?

Her sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, a fresh page beckoning her. She reached for a pencil, the familiar weight of it grounding her. Her hand shook slightly as she began to draw—light strokes that gradually took form.

It was a woman, her features shadowed, her hands outstretched. One palm held a flame, small but bright, while the other cradled a broken mirror. The reflection in the shards was distorted, but there was something unmistakably vulnerable about the image.

Anita stared at the sketch, her chest tightening.

She recognized herself in it—the part of her that wanted to believe in second chances, and the part that couldn’t forget the cracks left behind.

***

A week later, the flare finally loosened its grip, and Anita found herself in the park with her sketchbook. The autumn air was crisp, the leaves a multitude of gold and crimson. She sat on a bench near the pond, the sound of ducks splashing providing a soothing backdrop.

Her pencil moved across the page, sketching the twised branches of a nearby tree. Each twist and knot felt like a metaphor for her own body—strong but weathered, scarred but still standing.

“You always find the prettiest spots,” a familiar voice said.

Anita glanced up to see Miles standing a few feet away, a cup of coffee in each hand.

“I didn’t invite you,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

He grinned, holding out one of the cups. “Figured I’d take my chances.”

She took the coffee, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“Comes with the territory,” he said, sitting beside her.

They fell into an easy silence, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Miles watched her sketch, his presence surprisingly unobtrusive.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked suddenly.

Anita paused, her pencil hovering above the page. “You mean, do I wish I didn’t have lupus?”

He nodded.

“Of course I do,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I wish I could wake up without wondering how much my body’s going to betray me that day. I wish I didn’t have to think about every step I take, every piece of food I eat, every minute of sleep I get. But wishing doesn’t change anything.”

Miles looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re stronger than I think I’d be.”

She laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Strength has nothing to do with it. You just survive because you don’t have a choice.”

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of her words settling between them.

“Do you ever wish we were different?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Anita turned to him, her heart tightening. “I don’t know. Maybe. But wishing doesn’t change that either.”

His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he looked like a man carrying the world’s regrets on his shoulders.

“I’m trying, Anita,” he said finally. “I know I’ve messed up. I know I have a lot to prove. But I want to be here. For you.”

Her chest ached, but it wasn’t from her lupus this time. It was from the rawness in his voice, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

“I want to believe you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m scared, Miles. Scared of letting you in again and watching you walk away when things get hard.”

He reached for her hand, his touch warm against her cold fingers. “Then let me prove it. One day at a time.”

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t respond either.

Instead, she looked out at the pond, her thoughts swirling like the ripples on the water. Trust wasn’t something that could be given—it had to be earned.

But for the first time, she thought maybe—just maybe—she was willing to let him try.

***

It had been three months since Anita had let Miles back into her life, and she was starting to understand what it meant to trust again. The lupus flares still came—uninvited, unpredictable—but they were becoming less frequent, less severe. Some days, her body was simply tired. Other days, it felt like she could conquer the world. But no matter how much her body resisted, she no longer felt entirely alone in the struggle.

Today, the flare was small, a dull ache in her wrists and knees, the kind that made everything feel slightly out of reach. But she had learned to work with it. To pace herself.

The morning had slipped by with her lost in the rhythm of her paintbrush. Her studio was still messy, scattered with half-finished canvases and sketchbooks. But the artwork—it was changing. It was becoming less about the fight and more about finding beauty in the cracks.

Anita paused to stretch her neck, feeling the tension loosen as she glanced at her latest piece. It was a woman—her likeness, but not quite. The face was turned away, shrouded in shadows, but the hands were open, delicate and confident, cradling a glowing light. It felt like a breakthrough.

I’m finally letting go, she thought, exhaling slowly. The weight of the thought hung in the air for a moment before it sank into her bones.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called, not looking away from her painting.

The door creaked open, and she heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps. “I bring offerings,” Miles said with a playful tone, stepping inside with a bouquet of daisies and a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.

She turned, a genuine smile tugging at her lips despite the fatigue. “You spoil me,” she said, accepting the flowers. The scent of fresh daisies mingled with the faint smell of paint and turpentine.

Miles placed the coffee on the small table beside her, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her canvas. “This one’s different,” he said, walking closer. “You’ve moved away from the dark.”

Anita studied the painting for a moment, as if it could reveal something she had missed. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s still there, though. You can’t erase the shadows. But you can let the light in.”

He smiled, his gaze softening. “I like that.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t feel heavy. He sipped his coffee, watching her work. The air between them was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said finally, setting his cup down.

Anita didn’t look up from her painting, but her hand paused mid-stroke. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

She glanced at him, her lips tight. “About how I’m not as sure of everything as I want to be.”

He didn’t respond immediately, giving her space. Instead, he simply watched her, his eyes gentle.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, her voice quieter. “I don’t know how to trust. How to let myself be… happy, without waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her with a sincerity that almost made her want to look away. “I get it. You’ve been hurt, and it’s hard to just forget about it. But I’m not asking you to. I’m asking for a chance to prove that I’m not going anywhere.”

Anita swallowed hard, trying to push down the knot in her throat. She had heard those words before, from him and from others, but it had never been so hard to believe. She could feel the weight of her past pulling at her, reminding her of all the times she had trusted, only to be left behind.

But Miles... Miles had kept showing up. Slowly, steadily, like a constant force in the midst of her chaos. She couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I don’t want to need anyone,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to need you.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability.

Miles reached out, placing his hand gently on hers. “I don’t want you to need me, Anita. I want you to want me. But I’ll be here regardless. I’ll be here whether you need me or not.”

She felt the rawness of his words, his hand warm against hers. She had spent so many years pushing people away, afraid of what might happen if she let them in, afraid of what it would mean if they saw her too clearly. But now, with his hand in hers, she realized she had been wrong.

“I’m trying,” she said softly. “But it’s so hard to let go of the fear.”

“You don’t have to let go of everything,” Miles replied. “You can still hold on to the parts of you that need protection. But let me be part of that protection. Let me show you that you can trust me.”

She looked at him, her chest tight, the battle between her heart and her fear waging war inside her. He had shown up for her when no one else had. He had stayed when she hadn’t known how to ask for help.

“I’m scared, Miles,” she whispered. “Scared of loving and getting hurt again. Scared of letting someone see all the broken pieces of me.”

He squeezed her hand, his voice steady. “I’ve seen your broken pieces, Anita. I’ve seen them, and I’m not running away. I’ll be here, and I’ll love you through it, no matter what. Even when you don’t believe you deserve it.”

Her breath caught, the weight of his words sinking into her. For the first time, she felt a shift inside—a small, imperceptible crack in the armor she had built around herself. She had spent so much of her life pretending that she was fine, pretending that she didn’t need anyone, pretending that her pain didn’t exist. But with Miles here, standing beside her, his words a promise, she realized that she didn’t have to pretend anymore.

“I’m not perfect, you know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be perfect.”

He smiled softly, his thumb brushing against her hand. “You don’t have to be.”

The tenderness in his voice was everything she needed to hear, but hadn’t allowed herself to believe. She had spent so much of her life measuring her worth by her pain, by the parts of her that didn’t fit into the world’s idea of perfection. But now, with Miles there, with the space they had created between them, she felt something else begin to grow. Something softer.

“I think I’m ready,” she said, her words tentative but sure. “Ready to trust you. Ready to let you in.”

Miles leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Anita closed her eyes, feeling the tension in her body begin to unravel. She wasn’t sure how this story would end, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to find out.

As she turned back to the canvas, her brush moving fluidly across the surface, she saw the painting begin to take shape—light mingling with shadow, softness blending with strength. It was imperfect, but it was beautiful. Just like her.

And this time, she wasn’t alone in it.