“Us,” I say, flashing a warm, genuine smile. I press play on the remote. “Hope they got my good side then.”
He smiles, and we fall into a quiet rhythm. There’s a shot of Oliver screaming something to the team, soaked in rain. Even then, you can see the heart on his sleeve and the passion he plays with. I suppose, as angry as I was to have Matt show up, there’s something beautiful about having these memories at my fingertips always.
It’s surreal watching the season back. I remember every headline, every crisis, and every event. There’s a shot of me outside the locker room after a match, clipboard in hand, laser-focused. Oliver walks into the frame and brushes past me. He doesn’t even stop to look at me, but he makes sure our hands touch. The cameras move on, and the audience will probably never know we had already been together for months at that point.
I watch as pieces of our beginnings unfurl on screen. Oliver’s hand rests on my thigh, casual and steady.
“How weird is this?” I ask quietly. “Watching it all happen.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “You mean watching myself fall in love with my PR manager?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a gift.” His gaze finds mine. “It’s like I get to fall in love with you over and over again.”
The documentary rolls on, filled with flashbacks and footage of the earliest moments of our relationship.
I can’t stop thinking about how far we’ve come.
Not even just me and Oliver.
But me.
From who I used to be.
A woman who was afraid to take up space.
And yet, here I am now. Stronger. Happier. In love. Taking up as much space as possible, beside a man who basks in my light.
It didn’t happen all at once. True growth is quieter and harder than that. It’s not one big push toward something. It’s a thousand small moments strung together into something real. It’s standing your ground. Setting a boundary. Saying no. Sayingyes. Trying. Letting yourself hope again. Letting yourself believe again.
I think about how Oliver was when we met. All closed-off glares and tension. And now? Now he’s soft and open. Not just with me, but with everyone. He lets them see all of him.
Oliver and I grew together. Neither of us had to shrink to make it work. We made room for each other.
And for just a small moment, as the documentary flashes to another dramatic scene, I think of Matt.
He doesn’t get a happy ending.
But he doesn’t get a tragic one either.
And somehow, I think that’s worse for men like him.
Closure is funny like that. It doesn’t always come in the form of a grand, satisfying takedown. This isn’t a fairytale movie that ends with him being exposed in some moment of cinematic justice. Sometimes, the villain doesn’t win, but they don’t necessarily lose either.
He just… stays the same. Still desperate. Still clawing for attention. Still hiding behind his charm and ego. Still chasing stories that were never his to tell.
He doesn’t get a redemption arc. There are no lessons learned.
He just doesn’t getme.
And that’s the only ending that matters.
One day, people will see him for who he truly is. That’s what I hope, anyway. And when they do, I hope I never hear about it. Because I’m not listening anymore. I’m not waiting for it to happen. I’m too busy living this life.
Sometimes, you don’t need to watch your villain lose. Sometimes, it’s enough that you made it out. That you escaped the wreckage and moved into something better. You clawed your way out to write a better story, one you deserved. You walked away from the war and chose peace instead. You chose yourself.
Sometimes, the most powerful ending isn’t revenge.
