She stops a few feet away from the porch—close enough that I can see the fine crease between her brows, the familiar way her mouth tenses when she's trying to hold too many emotions at once, the slight tremor in her hands that she's trying to hide.
When she speaks, her voice is quiet.
"This whole time?" she asks, and there's no accusation in it. Just disbelief. Just hurt. "This whole time, you said nothing."
I don't answer. Don't try to defend myself.
"You almost let me marry a man who didn't even know me."
Her eyes glisten but she doesn't let the tears fall.
“You still made a mixtape, every single summer.”
Her voice softens, thick with disbelief and something that sounds like wonder.
"You named a building after my dad."
She gestures behind me at the house.
"And this?"
My chest tightens so hard it's painful.
"Nora, I?—"
"Shut up."
She steps closer, climbing the three porch steps I built last month, closing the distance until she's right in front of me. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the freckle below her left ear, all the details I've been carrying in my memory like photos. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her, the familiar pull that's never faded no matter how much time has passed or how many miles separated us.
Then she reaches for my hand—the one that's been gripping the porch railing like it's the only thing keeping me upright—and presses something into my palm.
My fingers close around it automatically, and my world tilts on its axis.
The pebble.
The one I picked up and gave to her in Málaga seven years ago. The one I placed in her hand with a crooked smile and a ridiculous fun fact about penguins mating for life.
The one I never thought I'd see again.
My voice barely works.
"You... kept it?"
Her eyes finally spill over, tears tracking down her cheeks.
"Every day," she whispers. "Every single day for seven years. In my pocket, on my nightstand, in my bag. Every time I moved apartments or cities or tried to convince myself I was moving on—I kept it. Because letting it go felt like letting you go, and I couldn't. Even when I thought you'd forgotten me. Even when I thought I meant nothing to you."
The words shatter something open inside my chest—something that's been locked tight for so long I forgot it was there.
Every letter I wrote that she never got. Every year I waited. Every version of me that stayed quiet because loving her meantprotecting her from the messy truth of what Ollie did, of how much I'd failed her by not fighting harder.
She didn't forget.
She carried me just like I carried her.
"I thought you moved on. Found someone better. Built a life that didn't include me because I wasn't worth the effort of staying in touch."
Each word is a knife, because I know exactly how much damage that belief did. How many years she spent thinking she wasn't enough when the truth was she was everything.
