With a shaky breath, I let myself relax into his embrace, allowing myself, just for a moment, to loosen my grip on the pastand focus on the quiet promise of what lies ahead. It’s not easy, and it’s far from perfect, but maybe—just maybe—it’s enough.
Just as I’m trying to find my footing, the music swells, the chorus filling the room with more promises, more forevers. Each note presses tighter against my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs until I can barely breathe. Guilt, grief, the ache of dreams that can never come true—all the things I thought I’d buried—rise up, unrelenting, crashing over me in waves.
“Baby,” Haydn’s voice comes soft and sure, like a calm in the middle of the storm. His hand moves in slow, gentle circles on my back, pulling me back to the present. “If you’re not ready, I’ll tell the movers to put everything back just as it was. Whatever you need, Pia.”
Because, of course, he would say that. Haydn is the most patient soul I’ve ever known, the kind of man who doesn’t ask for anything in return, who waits without question, who stands by me through every setback, every tear. Even now, I don’t understand how I got so lucky to be loved by someone like him—a man who sees every flawed, broken piece of me and never flinches, never pulls away. He’s become my strength, my safe place, the one person who makes me feel like I might not be as shattered as I think I am.
“You know,” he murmurs, his voice thoughtful, “I think you’re right. Maybe this is his way of telling you it’s okay to move on, to finally let yourself be happy.”
That does it. The dam I’ve been holding back finally breaks, and the tears come, spilling over in warm, unstoppable streams.
The grief is deep and piercing, rising up with a force I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not just missing him—of course I miss him, every single day. But it’s more than that. It’s the guilt, the twisted shame of wanting happiness again, of daring to even imagine a future with someone else, as if reaching for peace is a betrayal to the love I shared with Keane.
A ragged breath catches in my throat as I cling to Haydn, torn between gratitude and guilt. It feels as though I’m suspended between two worlds—one that ended before its time and another that waits just beyond my reach, calling to me, if only I could summon the courage to step forward.
Haydn holds me close, his arms preventing me from falling apart completely. “You’re allowed to feel all of this, Pia. Grief doesn’t just disappear because we find happiness again. It’s part of you, and it always will be. But it doesn’t have to keep you from living. Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting him. It just means you’re choosing to live for yourself, to honor the love you still carry.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. His fingers are gentle as he brushes a tear from my cheek. “Starting a new life doesn’t erase anything that came before. It just means you’re ready to let joy back in.”
A sob catches in my throat, and my voice trembling, I manage to whisper, “I don’t deserve you.”
Haydn’s expression softens as he lifts my chin. “That has nothing to do with it,” he says gently.
Tenderly, he kisses the tip of my nose. “Love isn’t about measuring worth. It’s about seeing each other, even the parts we’d rather hide, and choosing to stay anyway. You accept my routines, my superstitions, the midnight meditations . . . all the quirky parts of me.” He smiles a little, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “You’ve shown me that kind of love every single day, and I’m grateful to be here with you—for all of it, the good and the complicated.”
He pauses, letting the words settle, as if to make sure I feel the truth in them. “You don’t have to be perfect to be loved, Pia. You’re enough, just as you are.”
The tears won’t stop now, and I choke out the question I’ve been afraid to ask, my voice breaking. “Are you sure you still want me to move in with you?”
A smile softens his face, and he cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away another tear. “I love you too much not to, Pia. Building a life with you isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about taking all of it—every heartbreak, every joy, every scar—and creating something beautiful together. I’m here for all of it, and I’m here for you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper, feeling the ache of letting go mingling with the warmth of finally, truly allowing myself to be held.
And yet, as I rest in his arms, a flicker of unease stirs in the back of my mind, a nagging whisper I can’t quite ignore. It’s a fear that’s haunted me before, a feeling that creeps in like an old warning. My mother used to say to watch for the signs, that they’re there to tell us something if we’re willing to listen. But right now, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to hear, or if I’m even ready to listen.
Because the last time I let my guard down, the last time I trusted love to hold me, I lost him. And the scars of that loss still linger, haunting me to this day.
Chapter Three
Haydn
WasI an idiot for believing she was ready? Or is this just the crisis before the calm—the storm passing—and we’re finally on our way to the happiness we’ve been chasing? God, I want to believe it’s the latter. That this move, this next step, is what cements us. That it’s the foundation we’ve been building toward for years.
The road stretches out ahead, a dark ribbon of asphalt illuminated by my headlights, but inside the car, there’s nothing but silence. Just the low hum of the engine and the faint sound of Ophelia’s breathing. She’s been quiet since we left her apartment. Too quiet. And there’s something about the way she’s sitting, her body turned slightly toward the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, that feels like she’s slipping away.
I glance at her, catching the far-off look in her eyes, and it hits me in that place where love and worry live side by side. She’s here. Physically, she’s right next to me, but there’s this distance between us, like she’s already halfway out of reach. I grip the wheel tighter, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the road, even though all I want to do is stop the car, take her face in my hands, and ask her to tell me where she’s gone.
Back at her apartment, watching the movers pack up her things, I was so sure she’d change her mind. Every time she glanced around, I could see it—that hesitation, that flicker of doubt. She was memorizing everything. The cracks in the walls, the faded paint on the doorframe, the way the light hit her favorite corner of the room. Like she was saying goodbye to more than just the space, like she was saying goodbye to a part of herself.
And I thought, this is it. She’s going to call it off. She’s going to tell the movers to stop, to put everything back where it was, to leave her life untouched. Hell, I even braced myself for her to turn to me and say, “Haydn, I can’t do this.” Maybe even something worse—maybe even, “Haydn, I can’t be with you anymore.”
Not because she doesn’t love me. I know she does. I see it in the way she smiles at me when she thinks I’m not looking, in the way she leans into me when she’s tired, in the way she reaches for my hand even in her sleep. But love isn’t the problem.The problem is her guilt. The kind of guilt that doesn’t let you breathe, that wraps around your chest and squeezes until you can’t see straight.
Fucking survivor’s guilt.
That’s what they call it, but that word doesn’t come close to explaining what it’s done to her. “Guilt” makes it sound like something small, something you can brush off or talk through in therapy. But this? This is an ache that’s carved itself into her bones, a shadow that follows her everywhere she goes. It’s the voice in her head telling her she doesn’t deserve happiness, that she shouldn’t have made it out of that car alive when Keane didn’t.
Her love. The man she thought she’d spend her life with. The man who lost his life while she survived.
