Page 149 of One Last Encore

"He’s…calmer. Stronger. There’s this softness to him now, and it kills me, because I’m the one who left. I shut the door and didn’t look back. And now I can’t stop thinking about the way I left him, when he was at his lowest."

"You were trying to survive," Eden said. "So was he. That doesn’t mean you stopped loving him. Or that he stopped loving you."

There was a beat. A silence so full, it practically buzzed.

Then Eden asked, "You still love him, don’t you?"

Ingrid didn’t answer right away. She stared up at the ceiling, eyes stinging. The words sat heavy on her tongue, daring her to say it out loud.

"Yes," she whispered, barely more than a breath. Then, louder, shakier: "Yes. But I’m scared, Eden. What if we do this again and it all falls apart again?"

"But what if it doesn’t?" Eden whispered. Ingrid blinked back the tears threatening to fall.

"What if it’s different this time?" Eden continued. "You’re not the same girl. And he’s not the same boy. Maybe you both had to fall apart to figure out how to hold yourselves together."

Ingrid let the words sink in, like balm over bruised skin. But the ache still lingered.

"So…" Eden said gently, like she didn’t want to spook her, "what are you going to do?"

"I don’t know." Ingrid’s throat tightened again, and she pressed a hand to her chest like she could physically hold herself together. "Run? Hide? Join a silent retreat in the mountains?"

Eden let out a soft laugh. "Honestly? I’d give you five days before you cursed out a monk."

"Three," Ingrid muttered, eyes flicking to the ceiling again. "If the robes are itchy."

That earned a snort. "Yeah, you’d probably sneak in a Bluetooth speaker."

Silence stretched between them for a beat before Ingrid exhaled sharply. "God, what the hell do I do?"

Eden’s response was warm, steady. "That’s up to you. But maybe you should stop running and figure it out."

The words settled deep in Ingrid’s chest, as annoying as they were true. Eden was right but that didn’t make this any easier.

They eventually said their goodbyes, and as Ingrid set her phone down, the silence pressed in around her. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, but her mind refused to quiet.

She loved him. She always had. No amount of distance, denial, or self-preservation had ever changed that.

But love had never been the problem. It was everything else. The timing. The fear. The way they had burned too hot, too fast. Like a fire that consumed itself before it ever had the chance to last.

For five years, she had tried to leave him behind, convincing herself it was a beautiful, fleeting thing. Something meant to be remembered, not revived. She told herself letting go was the right thing. The only thing. Because holding on had hurt too much.

But if that were true, why did he still linger in the quiet between her thoughts? Why did he exist in the spaces between breaths, in dreams she couldn’t shake, in an ache she had learned to live with but never silence? He was in the music she danced to. In the streets she walked. In the way she still reached for him in the dark before remembering he wasn’t there.

And now, he was here. Not a memory. Not a ghost.

Could she trust it? Could she trust him? Could she trust herself not to run?

But as she sat with the thought, she realized that didn’t want to live without him. Even with all her strength, the kind that rose with the sun and moved through worn shoes and careful smiles, every part of her still reached for him. Yes, she had carried on. She had gone to work, danced on aching feet, laughed with friends, let the seasons pass. She had survived. She didn’t want to keep surviving. Not without him.

When her alarm shattered the silence at 7 a.m, Ingrid she hadn’t slept. She had spent the entire night staring at the ceiling.

She brushed her teeth, showered, and got dressed but she wasn’t really there. Every movement was automatic, distant, her body going through the motions while her mind remained fixed on one thing. On him.

She stepped into the hallway, heart pounding, ready to cross the impossibly small gap between their doors, but she froze.

Another envelope was taped to her door, stark white against the wood. Her fingers trembled as she peeled it off. She slid her thumb under the seal, pulling out a single five-dollar bill.

It slipped through her fingers, fluttering to the floor. The breath whooshed out of her lungs. The lipstick mark was still there. The one she had pressed onto it five years ago.

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