He ordered a bottle, chugged half like he was trying to drown the silence.
Then, finally, he spoke. Guess the liquor did its job.
“Vivienne,.. five years. I’ve been searching for you, but you just vanished.”
I kept eating. Quiet. Cold.
He drifted from old memories to what’s left of now.
+15 Bonus
“Never divorced Rainee,” he muttered, laughing like it hurt. “You were right. Couldn’t let her go. But I couldn’t let you go either.”
Then he dropped it–like it meant something.
“Guess what I named her kid?”
I looked up, couldn’t help it. His eyes were glowing soft, all tender and broken.
“Quivien,” he said. “Every second, I was thinking of you. But I was too much of a coward to face you.”
He hid behind his hands and cried–quiet, ugly, relentless.
All I felt was a weird wave of disbelief.
Once I finished my food, I finally said something.
Chapter 8
“If that’s all, let’s not drag this out. We’re done here. No need for a reunion ‘tour.”
Quentin shut his eyes like that one cut deep, then took a shaky breath.
After a long pause, he looked at me again–eyes full of everything I didn’t need.
“…Alright. Let me walk you back.”
His voice cracked. Too late for soft.
+15 Bonus
After that dinner, Quentin finally let go.
We didn’t talk after that. Not a text. Not a call.
Once my report wrapped, I flew back overseas and slipped right back into my quiet, clockwork life.
Then, a year later–another report, another trip home–I saw her.
Cecilia. Waiting.
She looked wrecked. No smug smirk, no sharp tongue. Just guilt.
“I’m sorry, Vivienne. It was all my fault. I hope… you can forgive me.”
I gave her a small smile. Most of it felt like a lifetime ago.
Before I could ask why she was even there, she reached into her coat and pulled out a letter.
Her voice cracked.
“Quentin’s gone. The doctor said it was from a broken heart. He said his biggest regret was how he treated you. He divorced Rainee after the baby… but he couldn’t face you. Too scared. Too ashamed.”
My throat went dry. Lips pressed tight.
Why do people always wait till it’s too late?
1 opened the letter.
One line.
(May we meet again in the next life and start over.)
1 let out a breath
Then I lit the letter on fire.
‘Hope next life, you actually know what you want.‘
