Tesoro,
It’s strange how time works. How it heals, how it hurts. I’ve spent these years trying to fill the hole I left behind. But nothing, nothing could ever compare to what youbrought into my life. I walked away from you like it was the right thing to do, like it was some sort of sacrifice, but all I did was create a wound that would never fully heal.
I know I can’t undo the past, no matter how much I want to. I need you to know I was never running from you. I was running from myself. I was
scared, so damn scared. I was afraid I’d become someone I couldn’t be for you. I was afraid of what I might do if I stayed. I was afraid to continue holding you back because of what I was going through.
But you never deserved that, Nina. You deserved someone who could show up, someone who could be there for you, no matter what. You deserved a better version of me, and I’ve spent these years trying to become that man. I’m in therapy, I fought through the darkness, and I worked to be the person who could give you the love you deserve. But I’m so sorry I couldn’t be that man when it mattered.
I’m doing everything I can now because a life without you has never been worthliving.
-Ronan Romano
I stared at it for a long moment, fighting the familiar ache pulling at me. He’d claimed he wanted to try again weeks ago, but I thought he’d stop after the first week. I never expected it to be like this. Weeks later, with a box and a letter.
How did he even know where I lived?
I closed my eyes, remembering how it felt when he walked out of my life. I wanted to scream at him for making it so hard to move on. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?
I knew I—fuck.
Chapter Seventeen
RONAN
Present Day
NEW YORK CITY
Everyone else’s favorite day was either Christmas, Thanksgiving, or their birthday, but mine was different. My favorite day was today—May twenty-fifth. Nina’s birthday. It was the one day each year when I’d have Rachel clear my schedule, and I’d spend the day at home crocheting. I could almost feel her beside me, fingers deftly twisting yarn into shapes only she could see before they became real. In a way, crocheting on her birthday kept her close, even if it was the memory of her laughter or the soft touch of yarn in my hands.
I tried my best, always succeeding in never missing herbirthday, Christmas, or any holiday. I made sure her flowers were delivered for her birthday, and if she had a milestone—one Avo never failed to tell me about—I made sure something special was sent. Every Christmas, I saw to it she received her fruit cupcakes because she couldn’t stand a whole fruitcake.
I walked into the storage room and pulled out the box with her name carefully scrawled on top. Inside were bits and pieces of a past I’d pieced together through fingers fumbling over yarn, a time when I hadn’t known a damn thing about crocheting but had signed up for a class anyway. It was one of the only ways I could connect with her then, even if I’d only ever managed to send flowers or chocolate cake instead. I wasn’t sure why, but sending her what I made felt more vulnerable than I could ever admit. So each creation stayed here, gathering quiet memories like dust.
My first attempt? A pair of earmuffs. She always had cold ears in the winter, even with her thick, dark hair covering them. I’d dropped stitches, lost count, started over more times than I cared to remember, but finally finished them. She’d never get to wear them, but they were here, a reminder of the patience she’d unknowingly taught me.
Next was a pink scarf. She’d always been a “pink girl,” soft and warm in ways I’d never quite managed myself. Then came the gloves. I’d gone for winter white, her favorite, but an entire spool ended up dunked in my scotch one morning, staining it a splotchy amber. If she were there, she would have laughed and said they had “character.” So, I left them as they were.
The unfinished sweater was next. Needles still stuck in the fabric, waiting for hands that wouldn’t pick them up again. That was the one piece I’d never managed to see through. Maybe it was the thought of her wrapping herself in something I’d made, or perhaps it was because my stitches weren’t good enough for her, never quite even, never quite right. Never quite perfect asshe was.
Then there were the smaller things, the ones that came with practice. I’d made her a sunflower, one of her spring favorites, with petals curling up as if they’d been sun-soaked. There was a small pillow shaped like a heart I thought she could use on her favorite sewing chair, and a bookmark for the fashion books she loved, always left open on the nightstand. A simple headband came last, though it took me three tries to get the thickness right.
Now, here I was, on her birthday, with fresh supplies, a video tutorial playing softly in the background, and determination that this year, I’d do it. I’d make or attempt to make her something new: twenty-nine crocheted peonies, each petal sewn with the love I’d never been able to say.
But today was for her, so I picked up the needle, took a breath, and began.
It was her twenty-ninth birthday, and this year, I had settled for my usual—I’d sent flowers and a tres leches cake—the one from her favorite bakery, the kind she always saved for special occasions.
My phone buzzed on the table, and I leaned back, setting the yarn down as Rachel’s name lit up the screen. I answered, already knowing why she was calling.
“The flowers and the cake have been delivered,” Rachel said, her voice efficient but gentle, aware of the significance. “Anonymously, as you asked.”
I took a steady breath, the weight in my chest loosening enough. “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. If you need anything else… well, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll be fine,” I replied softly, though I knew she’d keep her phone close, just in case.
