I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress gives slightly under my weight.
“So uh, Alfie's gone and Ollie's gonna be a dad in few weeks." I swallow hard. “And none of it feels right without you here."
The words hang there, heavy with everything unsaid.
“I miss you, man. Everyday.”
I pat the bed then stand slowly, feeling the weight of the room settle into my bones, and leave, closing the door gently behind me.
Nora's room is just down the hall.
I don't go in at first. I lean against the opposite wall, breathing slowly, deliberately.
The evening light through the window. The texture of the wall against my back. The distant murmur of voices downstairs. I focus on what's in front of me until my pulse steadies.
I've avoided this door for seven years. Not because it hurts—though it does—but because it still matters. Because what happened in this room, what we were to each other, hasn't lost its significance just because time has passed.
Eventually, I open it.
The room is smaller than I remember, or maybe I'm just bigger now—not physically, but in the way people expand when they've lived through things.
The bedspread is pale green, her favourite colour and is neatly tucked at the corners too. The window looks out over the lake, sunlight dancing on the water, creating patterns of light and shadow that shift with the gentle movement of the surface.
Everything paused, like the room has been waiting for someone to acknowledge it.
I let myself think about the possibility I've been avoiding for days.
The funeral is next week. There's a strong chance—stronger than I want to admit—that Nora will be there because Alfie mattered to her too. He was part of the fabric of her summers here.
I sit on the edge of the bed. This is where she used to lie on her stomach, chin propped in her hands, reading or writing innotebooks she'd fill cover to cover. Where she laughed at her own jokes before sharing them. Where she cried the night everything fell apart between us and I didn't know how to hold her without breaking us both.
Seven years since we were together. Five years since I last saw her—since Ollie's wedding, since I watched her from across a crowded reception and realized that walking away hadn't made loving her any easier.
I've lived entire lifetimes since then. Built things. Lost things. Become someone I'm genuinely proud of, someone who shows up and does the work.
And still—somewhere inside—I'm still the boy I was when I loved her.
If I see her at the funeral, do I tell her I'm sorry? For what, exactly? For loving her the only way I knew how at the time? For letting her go when staying would've destroyed us both? For choosing survival over us?
Do I explain that I'm steady now, that I've built something solid out of the ruins? Or do I say nothing at all and let the space between us speak for itself?
Some people don't leave you, no matter how much time passes or how far you travel from who you were when you knew them. They just become quieter, settle into a different chamber of your heart, wait there patiently for moments like this when the distance collapses and you remember exactly why letting go felt like tearing off a limb.
I sit there a while longer, letting the memory exist without trying to rewrite it. Just acknowledging that a funeral might be the thing that brings us face to face.
Whatever happens, I'll handle it the way I handle everything else now—with honesty, with presence, without running from discomfort.
I stand slowly, smoothing the bedspread, erasing the evidence of my presence, and head back toward the stairs.
Downstairs, voices rise and fall in the natural rhythm of people sharing stories.
Life continuing despite loss.
CHAPTER 9
HYDRANGEAS OR PEONIES?
NORA
