Cycles

I dedicate this story to a dear friend I lost too soon--Karen. When I was younger, she taught me what it truly meant to love deeply, honestly, and without fear. Her warmth, her laughter, and the way she made space for others in her heart left a mark on me that has never faded. Cycles is a reflection of that kind of love, the kind that shapes us, lingers through time, and circles back when we least expect it. Karen, this story carries pieces of what you gave me. I'll never stop being grateful.

On to the story:

---------------------------------

Prologue:

Matt:

Seattle has always been home. Not just in the physical sense, but deep in my bones. It's the hum of rain on glass, the hiss of bike tires on wet pavement, the smell of salt off the Sound. It's where my parents raised me, taught me that a good life wasn't built on money but on moments, effort, and the people you ride with. With their help, I opened Lake Side Cycles--just a modest shop in Lake City with more hope than inventory. Somehow, it worked. Word spread, riders came, and the shop became something more. When I hired Rebecca McCormick, everything leveled up. She had this sharp wit and a grounding presence, and over time, she became a close friend--someone who saw the same possibilities I did.

When my parents died, they left me more than memories. A trust fund--more money than I'll ever need. But I've never been one to chase wealth. I live in the same neighborhood, ride the same Cannondale, and keep the bank account details to myself. Even Erin doesn't know the full extent. Not because I don't trust her. I just want to live with intention, like my parents taught me--to stay grounded in what matters, not what glitters.

Still, something inside me wanted to grow. I started imagining a place that wasn't just about bikes but about the whole outdoor lifestyle we live up here in the Northwest. That's when Olympic Edge Outfitters took shape. I bought a spot on the edge of Lake Union and poured myself into the vision. Not just a store, but a hub--a place to equip and inspire adventurers. We're almost there. The grand opening is around the corner. I've kept it under wraps, saving it as a surprise for Erin. Something that could mark the start of a new chapter--for both of us.

And Erin... she walked into my life on a rainy Seattle afternoon like a plot twist I didn't see coming. I was unloading a U-Haul, exhausted, soaked, trying to wrestle my mattress through a doorway when she stepped outside and asked if I could move the truck. Not exactly a meet-cute, but in retrospect? It was perfect. There was spark, sarcasm, something playful behind her green eyes. A month later we were dating. A year later, I asked her to marry me. Simple as that. Complicated as hell.

Funny how everything that matters can begin in a single moment. One question. One sideways glance. One rainy afternoon you don't think twice about--until it changes your whole life. And for me, it all started the day she asked me to move the truck.

_________________

Unloading -

Matt:

The mattress was winning.

I had wedged it halfway up the stairwell, and it refused to go any farther. My palms were sweaty despite the chill, and every awkward push just jammed it tighter. My hoodie clung to me, damp from the drizzle that had been falling since sunrise. Welcome to Seattle.

"Of course it starts raining the second I open the truck," I muttered, pressing my shoulder into the foam like it owed me money.

Then I heard her voice--sharp, clipped, and coming from behind me.

"Hey! Uh--can you move your truck? You're kind of blocking me in."

I turned my head, already formulating a half-sarcastic reply, but the words froze on my tongue.

She stood at the edge of the driveway, arms folded, hood up, soaked strands of raven hair framing a face that somehow made irritation look like art. She didn't blink when I met her eyes. Green. Sharp. No-nonsense.

"Uh," I started, glancing back at the mattress. "Yeah. Just... give me a second to un-wedge this thing and I'll get out of your way. Unless you want to help?"

That earned me a smirk. "I didn't realize the welcome package included manual labor."

"Just a bonus feature," I said, grinning.

She hesitated, then laughed--a short, surprised sound like she hadn't meant to let it out. Then she waved a hand toward the U-Haul. "I just need to get to work. You're moving in here?"

"Yeah. Apartment B3."

Her expression shifted just slightly. "No kidding. I'm B2."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, looks like I'm your new neighbor. Try not to file a noise complaint just yet. I make decent coffee--peace offering."

She gave me a mock-considering look. "Depends. Do you grind your own beans or are you one of those pod people?"

"I grind. Burr grinder."

She smiled--actually smiled this time--and took a step back toward her car. "Alright, coffee truce. But seriously, I'm late. Truck?"

"Right, right. One second."

I wrestled the mattress back down the stairs, shoved it into the living room, and jogged to the truck to pull it forward just enough for her to back out. She gave me a small wave through the windshield as she pulled away, and I stood there on the wet pavement, heart thudding harder than it had any right to.

I didn't even know her name.

But something had shifted. I felt it.

-----------

Erin:

I was already running late.

My phone buzzed with a passive-aggressive "Where are you?" text from Derek, which I promptly ignored. My hair was damp, my coffee had gone cold on the passenger seat, and to top it off, some guy had parked a moving truck squarely behind my car. Perfect.

I stepped out into the drizzle, tugging my hood up and preparing to go full passive-aggressive-Seattle-nice. But when I rounded the corner and saw him--halfway up the stairs with a mattress folded around him like a bad burrito--I hesitated. He was struggling. Like, genuinely wrestling the thing. I almost felt bad. Almost.

"Hey!" I called, loud enough to be heard over the rain. "Can you move your truck? You're kind of blocking me in."

He turned. And I swear to God, for a split second, I forgot I was annoyed.

Dark hair, scruffy jaw, a tired grin that looked like it'd been earned by a long day. He blinked at me, eyes impossibly green, then gave me the kind of sheepish smile that could disarm anyone with a pulse.

"Yeah," he said, glancing back at the mattress. "Just... give me a second to un-wedge this thing and I'll get out of your way. Unless you want to help?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize the welcome package included manual labor."

"Just a bonus feature."

I wasn't expecting him to be charming. Or quick. Or funny. I definitely wasn't expecting to laugh--but I did. Just a short, involuntary sound that slipped out before I could stop it. Damn it.

He mentioned coffee. Something about living next door. Apartment B3. My heart did this weird skip. I told myself it was nothing. Just a guy. Just a neighbor. A good-looking one, sure, but probably one of those weekend mountain bike types who wears too much fleece and listens to folk covers of hip-hop songs.

But when he mentioned the burr grinder, something shifted. That detail. That little unexpected thing. It caught me off guard.

"Alright, coffee truce," I said, backing away toward my car. "But seriously--I'm late."

He nodded and jogged off. A minute later, the truck rolled forward just enough for me to squeeze out. As I eased into the street, I glanced at him in the rearview.

He was standing there in the rain, hoodie damp, watching me go.

I didn't know his name. But somehow, it felt like I'd just walked into the beginning of something.

-----------

Matt:

The hardest part about building something in secret isn't the work--it's hiding the joy. Every time I left the apartment and Erin asked, "Heading to the shop?" I'd nod, half-truths tangled behind my smile. Technically, yes, I was going to the shop. What I didn't say was that the shop wasn't Lake Side anymore--not entirely. Olympic Edge Outfitters was becoming real. Framing was done. Drywall up. The main floor was starting to take shape. Every time I walked through that unfinished space on Lake Union, I saw more than shelves and displays. I saw a future. Our future. But the words kept catching in my throat.

I told myself I was waiting for the right moment. Maybe when the sign went up. Or when the lights were installed. Or when the floors stopped creaking and the smell of sawdust was replaced with fresh gear. The truth was, I was scared. Not of the business--that part, I knew how to handle. I was scared of what it might mean for us. For her. Erin had dreams of her own, big ones. Corporate campaigns, bright lights, east coast offices. She didn't say it out loud, but I saw it in her eyes sometimes--restlessness, like Seattle was a stepping stone. What if my dream held her back?

Rebecca knew. Of course she did. She'd been helping coordinate the launch behind the scenes, prepping to step in as store manager once things went live. She kept teasing me. "You've got that goofy grin again," she said one afternoon while reviewing vendor orders. "Just tell her, Matt. Women like ambition, you know." I smiled, nodded, deflected with a joke. But deep down, I wasn't worried about whether Erin liked ambition. I was worried about whether she'd choose mine over hers.

In the evenings, I came home covered in dust and excuses. Erin would be curled on the couch, laptop open, pitching taglines into the void. I'd kiss her cheek and say something like, "Busy day at the shop," and she'd nod, distracted. Part of me wondered if she could tell--if she knew something was coming and was just letting me hold it close until I was ready. She always gave me that space. It's one of the reasons I love her. But there were moments--brief, quiet ones--where I caught her looking at me like she had a secret too.

And maybe that's what scared me most. We were both building something in silence, hoping the other would catch up. Hoping it wouldn't fracture what we had. But secrets--no matter how well-intentioned--have a way of growing. Of shifting weight beneath your feet until something breaks loose. Still, I held onto the vision. The day I'd open the doors to OEO, lead her through them, and say, "This is for us." I just didn't know what she'd be holding when she walked in. Or if she'd still be holding me.

-----------

Rebecca:

Matt didn't have to say a word. I could read it in the way he moved--shoulders tighter, smile thinner, eyes flicking toward his phone more than usual. He'd been pouring himself into Olympic Edge like a man possessed, and I admired the hell out of him for it. But I also knew the signs. He wasn't sleeping much, and whenever I brought up Erin, his answers got shorter. The final wall of gear had just gone up that morning when I cornered him in the back office with two cups of coffee and zero patience.

"You gonna tell her soon?" I asked, handing him the cup and leaning against the desk.

Matt looked up, caught off guard. "Tell her what?"

I gave him the look. The one I used on my son when he thought he could sneak cookies before dinner. "That you've been building a damn outdoor empire for the past year. That this"--I gestured around the room--"isn't just another bike shop. It's your future."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I want to. I do. I just... I don't want to scare her off, Beck."

"She's your fiancée, Matt. Not a skittish deer." I crossed my arms, lowering my voice. "Look, I like Erin. Smart. Driven. But if you two are holding your futures like cards in a poker game, someone's gonna fold. Just be honest. She loves you. She deserves the truth."

He didn't say anything for a moment--just stared at the cup in his hands like it had answers. I softened, stepping forward to place a hand on his arm. "You're building something beautiful here. But don't do it alone. You already know what it feels like to lose people. Don't make the mistake of shutting her out."

Matt gave me a half-nod, the kind that said he heard me but wasn't ready to act. Yet. And maybe that was okay--for now. I'd seen too many people wait until after the cracks formed to start patching them. At least he knew they were there. I just hoped when the moment came, he'd have the guts to open the door--and that Erin would still be on the other side of it.

-----------

Erin:

The office was quiet for a Tuesday morning. I sat at my desk, staring at the slideshow I'd reviewed at least a dozen times, hands resting on the keyboard like they were waiting for permission to move. The pitch was solid. The numbers lined up. The creative direction was bold, clean, and compelling. It should've been enough. But underneath all the data points and sleek transitions was a knot of doubt I couldn't shake. Because this wasn't just about landing a client. This was about proving I belonged at the table--and maybe, finally, being offered a seat at the bigger one in New York.

Carla looked over from her desk, where she was reviewing the mock-ups one last time. "You've got this," she said, as if reading my mind. "They'll eat it up." She leaned back in her chair, twisting her pen between her fingers. "Honestly, if Derek doesn't greenlight your move after this, I'll flip his ergonomic desk myself."

I laughed--tightly--but her words meant more than I let on. Carla had always been the voice in my corner. The kind of friend who brought snacks to brainstorms and sarcasm to budget meetings. She'd seen the pressure I put on myself, the late nights, the moments I stayed too quiet when I should've spoken louder. She also knew how much I wanted that New York spot--even more than I'd admitted out loud. It wasn't about the skyline or the status. It was about being seen. About proving that I could stand on my own, apart from Matt, from anyone.

Still, my mind drifted back to him--Matt, probably elbow-deep in bike grease or talking to customers like they were old friends. He had his own kind of success, quiet and steady. Grounded. I loved that about him. But lately, I felt like we were walking parallel lines--close, connected, but heading in different directions. He hadn't told me what he'd been working on, and I hadn't asked. And here I was, about to possibly upend everything we'd built together. I wondered, briefly, what would happen if I got the offer. Would he follow me? Would I even ask him to?

"Earth to Erin," Carla said, tossing a stress ball across the desk. I caught it just before it bounced off my laptop. She grinned. "Let's go change your life, boss lady."

I smiled--this time for real--and stood up, straightening my blazer and squaring my shoulders. Whatever came next, I'd deal with it. But first, I had a pitch to deliver. And it was going to be damn good.

_________________

Big Moves -

Matt:

The new space smelled like sawdust and fresh paint--honest smells, full of potential. I stood in the middle of the soon-to-be flagship for Olympic Edge Outfitters, surrounded by open floor plans, scattered tools, and the sound of a drill whining somewhere in the back. The walls were up, the shelving systems installed, and the skylights I fought the contractors for now bathed the space in natural light. It was finally happening. My vision--our vision, really--was almost ready to breathe. And yet, I hadn't told Erin a thing.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I could picture the look on her face if I did--surprise, maybe awe, hopefully pride. But underneath that daydream lived a seed of doubt. Her world was getting louder. Bigger. She was pushing toward the edge of something career-defining, and I could feel her slipping into a rhythm that didn't quite match mine anymore. I wanted to believe that this store, this life I was building, would be the bridge that kept us aligned. But I also knew what it meant to love someone with ambition. You either keep pace... or you get left behind.

Rebecca popped her head into the main room, holding a tablet and smirking like she'd been waiting to catch me in a moment. "You keep staring at the same corner like it's going to paint itself," she teased, walking toward me. "You going to tell her before we cut the ribbon, or after she reads about it in the Times?"

I gave her a tired smile. "I'm waiting for the right moment."

She raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're not waiting for the right outcome?"

Her words stayed with me long after she walked off. That was the thing about Rebecca--she didn't say much unless it mattered. And she was right. I wasn't just waiting for a moment. I was afraid of the wrong one. Of blurting it out while she was distracted or stressed or already halfway to New York in her mind. But I knew time was running short. The grand opening was three weeks away, and I had no idea what Erin would think when she found out I'd built a new life for us without asking if she wanted to live in it.

That night, back at our apartment, Erin was curled up on the couch, her laptop casting a glow on her face as she edited a pitch deck. I sat beside her, my hand resting on the box of mock-ups I'd brought home to review. She looked up briefly, smiled, then went back to work. I opened my mouth to say something--to tell her everything. But the words stuck. I chose silence instead, just for now. And as I watched her scroll, a strange mix of love and distance bloomed in my chest. We were still sitting side by side. But it was starting to feel like we weren't quite in the same place anymore.

---

It was just after midnight when I woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window--steady, familiar, grounding. Erin was curled against me, breathing soft and even, her hand resting on my chest like it had found its home in sleep. The kind of peace she only seemed to find after a long day of pushing herself too hard. I stayed still, not wanting to wake her, but my mind was far from still. It was racing, filled with floorplans and vendor calls, signage layouts and that damn ribbon-cutting ceremony I kept avoiding on the calendar.

I turned my head slightly, looking at her in the glow of the city light that filtered through the blinds. She was beautiful like this--unfiltered, unaware of the thousand tiny choices I was making behind her back. Not malicious ones, just... loaded ones. The kind that changed things. I thought of how she'd smiled at me earlier, distracted, when I brought her tea during one of her marathon editing sessions. She'd barely looked up. I didn't blame her. We were both busy building something. The question that kept pressing on me was whether we were building it together--or in separate directions.

I shifted gently, careful not to disturb her, and whispered into the quiet, "I wish I could show you."

She stirred slightly, her fingers twitching over my shirt, but didn't wake. I stared at the ceiling, heart heavy. "It's not just a store, Erin," I said quietly. "It's a life. One I want with you. One I built for you. For us."

For a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to wake her, take her hand, and tell her everything. To show her the space, explain the vision, and watch her eyes light up--not just because of the business, but because she understood it was rooted in love. But what if she didn't light up? What if her eyes stayed flat, calculating the distance between here and New York? That fear froze me. So instead, I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and kissed her temple.

"Soon," I whispered. "I'll tell you soon."

-----------

Erin:

I wasn't asleep.

I'd drifted close--right on that soft edge of sleep where your body settles but your mind won't shut up. The rain had brought a rhythm that usually lulled me under, but tonight, something kept me tethered. Maybe it was the pitch. Maybe it was the unread email from Derek marked CONFIDENTIAL. Or maybe it was the way Matt had been quieter lately--present but not really with me. He thought I hadn't noticed, but I did. I always did.

I felt him shift beside me, careful and slow, like he didn't want to wake me. His chest rose and fell under my hand, and then--barely above a whisper--I heard him say, "I wish I could show you."

My breath caught. My eyes stayed closed.

"It's not just a store, Erin," he continued. "It's a life. One I want with you. One I built for you. For us."

A quiet ache settled in my chest. I didn't know what he was talking about, not exactly, but I heard the weight behind the words. The intention. The longing. And maybe even the fear. I wanted to reach for him, to say something, to pull him closer. But I didn't. Instead, I stayed perfectly still. Because part of me--maybe the part I wasn't ready to face yet--was afraid of what I'd say in return. I had my own secret. A dream. A direction. One I wasn't sure had space for both of us.

When he kissed my temple and whispered "Soon," I almost whispered back, I already know. But I didn't. I just let the silence stretch between us like fog on the lake. Soft. Quiet. And slowly, quietly... growing.

_________________

The Pitch -

Erin:

I had never worn this blazer before. It was one of those "someday" pieces I kept in the back of my closet--sharp shoulders, deep navy, the kind that said promotion without trying too hard. Carla had given me a thumbs-up and a mock salute when I walked in that morning, mouthing, "You look dangerous." I smiled, but the nerves didn't ease. The pitch was scheduled for 9 a. m. sharp. A global apparel brand, seven figures on the table, and Derek watching my every move like a hawk in a tailored suit. Derek Haines--my direct supervisor, the Seattle office director, and the man who had quietly shaped the trajectory of my career whether I admitted it or not. He was ambitious, calculating, and always five moves ahead. I had once admired that about him. Lately, I wasn't so sure.

The boardroom was cold, sleek, impersonal--just like Derek liked it. I took my place at the front while he leaned against the far wall, arms folded. The clients filtered in, exchanging business cards and smiles like poker chips. My hands didn't shake, which surprised me. Once I started talking, the room faded. It was just me and the message. A story told in headlines, visuals, and rhythm. I pitched strategy, impact, voice. When I revealed the final campaign slogan, there was a pause--and then, one of the execs leaned back and said, "That's really good." That's when I exhaled.

Afterward, the conference room cleared. Carla squeezed my hand in passing, beaming. I started to follow her out when Derek's voice cut through the room: "Erin, a minute?" I turned. His tone was too calm. Calculated. The door clicked shut behind the last client, and we stood alone in that glass-and-steel vacuum. "That was impressive," he said, stepping closer. "Really impressive. HQ's going to be thrilled." I thanked him, heart still racing, unsure where this was going. Then he reached into his folder and slid a document across the table.

My eyes scanned the header: Position Offer -- Associate Creative Director, Brightline Strategies -- New York Division. My stomach flipped. I looked up. Derek was smiling. "They've been watching you. And I put in a word. You've earned this." The world went oddly quiet. This was everything I'd worked for. Everything I thought I wanted. And yet... a dozen thoughts crashed into me all at once. Matt. Seattle. The look in his eyes last night, even if he thought I was asleep. My fingers hovered over the paper, frozen.

"Thank you," I said finally, my voice more even than I expected. "This means a lot." Derek nodded, satisfied. "You don't have to decide now. But if you're smart, you'll take it." He turned and left me standing there, offer in hand, head spinning. I stared down at the letter, trying to imagine a version of my life that began in Manhattan. It looked beautiful on paper. But paper didn't hold hands in the rain. Paper didn't build stores in secret. Paper didn't whisper dreams in the dark when they thought you were asleep.

---

The coffee tasted burnt, but I didn't care. I needed something warm to hold. Carla and I had ducked out to our usual spot around the corner--a tiny cafe with lopsided tables, slow service, and the kind of anonymity that let you breathe between meetings. I stirred my drink even though I hadn't added anything to it. Carla watched me over the rim of her paper cup, one brow raised.

"So..." she said, drawing the word out like she was teeing up a punchline. "Are you gonna tell me why you look like you just saw your future... and it might've blinked first?"

I huffed a laugh, more air than humor. "Derek gave me an offer. New York. Associate Creative Director."

Her eyes widened. "Holy--wait, you got the New York bump? That's amazing!" She leaned forward, excitement quickly tempered by her trademark side-eye. "Except you don't look amazing. You look like you're about to throw up."

"I might," I muttered, wrapping my hands tighter around the cup. "It's everything I said I wanted. The role. The city. The recognition. He said HQ's been watching me--and Derek put in the word."

Carla blinked, then leaned back slowly. "He would frame it like he's your kingmaker." She tapped her cup thoughtfully. "But I know you, Erin. You don't need him to sell your shine. You've been doing that on your own since day one."

I looked out the window. Raindrops streaked the glass. "I just... Matt doesn't know. About the offer. About how serious I've been about New York. And there's something he's not telling me either--I can feel it. We've both got secrets now, and I don't know if we're building the same life anymore."

Carla was quiet for a moment. Then she said, softly, "Whatever you choose... just don't lie to yourself about what you're leaving behind. Make sure the dream you're chasing is still yours. Not the version you came up with before you met him."

I nodded, feeling the weight of it settle on my chest like a stone. I didn't have an answer--not yet. But sitting there in the cluttered corner of that cafe, I realized I'd already started asking the questions I'd been too scared to say out loud.

-----------

Matt:

I sat at the kitchen counter, spinning a screwdriver between my fingers, the final prototype for the OEO gear display mock-up sitting untouched in front of me. I'd brought it home to show Erin. Thought maybe tonight would be the night. I'd practiced what I'd say--nothing dramatic, just honest. "There's something I've been building... and I want you to see it first." But she hadn't come home straight after work. I told myself it was just the usual late pitch debrief, maybe drinks with Carla. Still, the quiet in the apartment felt heavier than usual.

When she finally walked through the door, the tension hit me before she even took off her coat. She looked tired, eyes distant, like her mind was still in that boardroom. She dropped her bag by the door and gave me a quick smile. "Hey, sorry. Long day." Then she was already walking past, heading for the fridge like she hadn't just shaken the foundation of her life. I stood, heart thudding, and followed her into the kitchen.

"Erin," I said, gently, "Can we talk for a second? There's... something I want to show you."

She turned, a bottle of sparkling water in hand. "Can it wait? My head's still spinning from today." She paused, then added with a tired smile, "I nailed the pitch, though. They loved it."

I smiled, trying to match her energy, but something in me deflated. "That's amazing. I'm proud of you." I wanted to ask more, but her body language was already closing off. I glanced at the mock-up still sitting on the counter behind me. My words backed up in my throat like traffic on a rainy freeway. "Yeah," I murmured, stepping back. "It can wait."

She leaned in, kissed my cheek, and disappeared into the bedroom. I stayed behind, staring at the gear mock-up, heart sinking. The moment was gone. And for the first time since this whole OEO thing began, I wondered if she was building a future I wasn't part of.

-----------

Matt:

I sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the gear display mock-up like it might explain something I couldn't put into words. Erin's laughter echoed faintly from the bedroom--she was on a call with Carla, debriefing the pitch, no doubt. Her voice was animated, light. She sounded proud. She should be. She was brilliant today. But the more I listened, the more that sound twisted in my chest. Like a reminder that I was already a step behind.

The blueprint folder for Olympic Edge Outfitters sat unopened on the coffee table, right next to the keycard to the building I hadn't yet taken her to see. I picked it up. Held it for a second. Put it back down. I didn't know when I started second-guessing whether this was something we were doing... or just something I was doing for her, hoping she'd meet me at the finish line. I believed in what I was building. I just didn't know if she'd still want it when she saw the foundation.

-----------

Erin:

I sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop dimmed beside me, phone silent now after Carla's call. The pitch was a hit. The offer was real. I should've been celebrating. But instead, I stared at the email I hadn't responded to yet--the one from Derek, subject line: Your Next Chapter. I could feel Matt's presence in the living room, quiet and waiting. I knew he wanted to tell me something. He'd been circling it for days, maybe weeks. But I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it. Not tonight. Maybe not at all.

A part of me hated that. Hated that I was keeping this from him. But I kept imagining what would happen if I told him. Would he be supportive? Would he ask me to stay? Would I want him to? The truth was, I didn't know anymore. I loved him. But lately, it felt like we were living parallel lives under the same roof--his filled with sawdust and silence, mine with ambition and unanswered questions. We were still moving. But I couldn't tell if it was toward each other... or away.

---

Both:

They each sat in separate rooms, hearts full and hands empty, listening to the hum of the city through rain-streaked windows. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. But both felt it--that quiet space between them widening like a crack in glass. Not broken yet... but no longer whole.

-----------

Matt:

The warehouse lights buzzed softly above us, casting a warm, unfinished glow over the Olympic Edge Outfitters floor. Shelves still needed stocking, signage still needed mounting, but it was beginning to look like a real store. I stood by the front counter, arms crossed, staring out at the space like it might answer something for me. Rebecca walked in from the back, clipboard in hand, and paused when she saw me.

"You've got that look again," she said, setting the clipboard down. "Like you're winning the game and still think you're losing."

I let out a humorless laugh. "Maybe I am."

She raised an eyebrow. "Alright, spill."

I hesitated. Then it all came out in a rush--how Erin nailed her pitch, how distant she'd been lately, how I tried to tell her about the store last night but the moment slipped through my fingers. "It's like we're still here, still together, but there's this space between us," I said quietly. "And I don't know if it's just stress or if... if she's already halfway out the door."

Rebecca leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Matt, listen to me. You've built something incredible here--don't minimize that. But you're also trying to hand her a future without asking if it's one she still wants. That's not partnership. That's planning around someone instead of with them." Her tone softened. "You love her. I know that. But love doesn't guarantee alignment. You've got to talk. Not with blueprints or rings or grand gestures. Just... talk. And be willing to hear what you don't want to."

I nodded slowly, the words sinking deep. She was right. As always. I couldn't keep building in silence, hoping love would fill the gaps. I had to face whatever was coming--truth, change, maybe even heartbreak. Because not knowing? That was starting to hurt more than any answer ever could.

-----------

Erin:

The office was quiet for once--most of the team had cleared out for the evening, leaving only the soft hum of printers and the tapping of Carla's fingers against her mug. I sat across from her in our shared space, the New York offer open on my laptop screen like a dare. I'd been staring at it for the last ten minutes, rereading the words until they started to blur. Carla finally broke the silence.

"You know stalling doesn't make the decision disappear, right?"

I sighed. "I know. I just... I didn't think it would feel like this."

She tilted her head. "Like what? Like winning?"

"Like betraying something I haven't even figured out how to talk about." I closed the laptop and looked up at her. "Matt doesn't know. I haven't told him. Every time I try, something holds me back. And now he's been weird too--like he's hiding something. We're both keeping secrets, and it's like we're afraid to say anything in case it confirms the distance we already feel."

Carla was quiet for a second, then leaned forward. "Here's the thing, E. This job? It's huge. But so is he. So is everything you've built together. You don't get a clean answer here. You get a choice. And maybe whichever way you go, something gets left behind. But that doesn't mean you run. You face it. You talk to him. Because if you don't? The thing you're trying to protect? That relationship you love? It's going to break anyway--just slower."

Her words hit hard, honest and sharp in the way only Carla could manage. I sat there, holding the weight of what she said, and for the first time, I realized I wasn't afraid of New York. I was afraid of what Matt might say when he found out I had already considered a life without him in it. And the longer I waited, the harder that truth would be to forgive.

_________________

The Lie of Timing -

Erin:

I told myself I'd tell him tonight. I repeated it all day like a mantra. After dinner. After we've settled in. After the timing feels right. But the truth was, the timing was never going to feel right, and I knew it. Every time I looked at Matt, with that quiet steadiness of his and those eyes that always saw more than I wanted to admit, I hesitated. Because once I told him about New York, about the offer, about how much I wanted it--everything between us would shift. And I wasn't ready for the silence that might follow.

He was in the kitchen when I walked in, slicing up vegetables for dinner like it was any other night. The counter was cluttered with half-prepped ingredients and an open envelope I didn't recognize. I stepped closer, curious, but before I could read it, he tucked it away. Just like that--gone. "Hey," he said, offering a soft smile, "You okay?" I nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired." He didn't press. He never did. And I didn't ask what was in the envelope. We were both keeping quiet, hoping the silence would somehow hold us together.

Over dinner, we talked about nothing important--Rebecca's latest sarcasm, a customer at the bike shop who tried to return a helmet because it wasn't "aesthetic enough." I laughed in the right places, leaned into him when he touched my hand, but the weight of my secret sat between us like a second plate at the table. At one point, he looked like he was going to say something--like something big was resting just behind his lips. But then he changed course, asked about my favorite trail on Bainbridge Island instead. And I let him. I let the moment pass.

Afterward, I sat in bed, laptop closed, the email draft to Derek still sitting in my drafts folder. I hadn't responded yet. I hadn't deleted it either. Matt walked in, drying his hands on a dish towel, and leaned against the doorframe. "You sure everything's okay?" he asked again, quieter this time. I smiled at him, and this time it hurt. "Yeah," I whispered. "Just a long week."

That was the lie. Not just the words--but the timing. I wasn't ready to tell him. Not because I didn't trust him. But because I didn't want to watch the hope fall out of his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, I wasn't ready to admit that part of me had already started packing--long before I ever opened that offer letter.

-----------

Matt:

She was folding laundry on the bed, the soft hum of a podcast playing from her phone--some marketing guru talking about branding like it was war. I stood in the doorway, holding the keycard to OEO between my fingers, the edge pressed into my thumb hard enough to leave a mark. I watched her for a moment, her movements precise, focused. Like folding fitted sheets could somehow bring order to everything else.

"I've got something to show you," I said finally. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

She glanced up, smiled--but it was a tired smile, the kind you give when you're not really present. "Can it wait?" she asked, barely missing a beat as she moved to the next shirt. "I've got an early call tomorrow, and my brain's already mush."

I stood there for a second too long, the keycard still in my hand. She didn't look back up.

"Yeah," I said. "It can wait."

But the truth was, it had been waiting. For days. Weeks. And as I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me, I realized something I hadn't wanted to face: she wasn't just distracted. She was already somewhere else. And I was standing in the doorway of a life I was building for us--alone.

_________________

Rain Check -

Matt:

I had it all planned. I was going to take her to the OEO site--just the two of us. The walls were painted, the windows cleaned, and I'd even lit a few lanterns inside for atmosphere. I wanted her to see it before anyone else. Not the polished grand opening version. The real version. Raw, unfinished, full of grit and hope. Like me. I thought maybe if she stood in that space, felt the energy of it, she'd understand what I was building--and why I wanted her to be part of it.

She was running late. Again. Texted me: Sorry, caught in post-client wrap-up. Can we do it tomorrow? Raincheck? I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I didn't respond right away. I just stood there in the middle of the store, surrounded by brand-new gear and handpicked designs, and felt the silence creep in. This wasn't just about tonight. This was the third raincheck in a row. Every time I tried to bring her into this dream, it felt like she was somewhere else entirely.

When I got back to the apartment, she was already home. Hair damp from the rain, laptop open, half-listening to a voice memo from her team. She looked up, smiled, and mouthed hi like we were passing each other in a hallway. I wanted to be mad. I wanted to ask her why she kept pulling away. But instead, I kissed her on the forehead and asked if she wanted tea. It was easier to play it cool. Easier than holding up a piece of my heart and watching her step around it.

Later that night, I sat at the table and opened my laptop. I pulled up a blank message and started typing: Erin, there's something I need to tell you. I wrote about OEO. About the building. About how I picked the Lake Union site because I pictured her walking through it. I wrote that it wasn't just a business--it was a future. Our future. I stared at the message for a long time. Then I deleted it.

The thing about rainchecks is, eventually, they pile up into something you can't reschedule. And as I lay in bed next to her, listening to the soft sound of her breathing and the quiet buzz of her phone lighting up with another late-night email, I realized something painful. I had already opened the doors to a life I wanted to share with her. But I was the only one standing inside.

---

The apartment was still dark when I woke up--just the faintest gray light filtering through the curtains, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like the world hasn't started moving yet. Erin was still asleep beside me, curled away from me, her back rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. I watched her for a moment, trying to memorize this version of us--before the day started, before emails and meetings and more things left unsaid.

I slipped out of bed and into the kitchen, barefoot and moving by muscle memory. Coffee. Two mugs. I filled both before I remembered she'd probably already be rushing to get out the door again, leaving the second one half-full and cooling on the counter. I stared at it, the steam curling in the dim light, and thought about everything I hadn't told her. The storefront. The brand. The dream with her name written quietly into every corner of it.

What happens if she says no?

The question had started as a whisper weeks ago, but now it was louder. What if she doesn't see the future the way I do? What if she opens that door to OEO, looks around, and feels trapped instead of inspired? What if she's already gone in her head, chasing something shinier, faster, louder--a world I can't compete with? I used to believe that love was enough to bridge ambition and timing. But lately, it felt like we were two clocks ticking out of sync, drifting by seconds that were starting to add up.

She walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, half-dressed, hair damp, moving on autopilot. She kissed my cheek, thanked me for the coffee, and said something about back-to-back meetings. I nodded, said I'd see her tonight. She smiled, but her eyes didn't linger. The door closed behind her with the softest click, but the silence that followed felt like a door slamming somewhere else entirely.

I stood there, alone with two mugs and a morning that should've felt like routine, but instead felt like a countdown. And for the first time, I realized I might be preparing for a future that only one of us was walking toward.

---

The front doors of Olympic Edge Outfitters creaked when I pushed them open, even though the hinges were brand new. I made a mental note to have someone look at it--again--but the sound felt fitting. Like the building itself wasn't sure it was ready to open. The space smelled like cedar and fresh sealant, a comforting mix of wilderness and construction. Everything was in place: shelves lined, signage mounted, gear positioned just right. From the outside, it looked finished. But inside? I wasn't sure anymore.

I walked the floor slowly, letting my hand skim over the tops of display tables, pausing at the trailhead map I'd had custom-printed for the back wall. I had picked each route myself, weaving in hikes and paths Erin and I had done together. Our favorites. Hidden gems. Places she'd laughed and raced ahead, hair whipping behind her. It was supposed to be an unspoken part of the story here--our story, etched into the bones of this place. Now, I wasn't sure if it would ever mean anything to her at all.

I stepped behind the counter and leaned against it, trying to picture her walking through those doors. Smiling. Wide-eyed. Maybe even a little in awe. I imagined her gaze trailing over the gear, the details, until it landed on me--waiting, proud, ready to say, I built this for us. But now, when I pictured it, I couldn't see her face. Just the shape of her walking out before I ever had the chance to open the door.

Rebecca passed through the front, clipboard in hand, slowing when she saw me. She didn't say anything at first--just gave me a look that said she already knew. "If she doesn't come through that door," she said gently, "this place will still be something special. Because it's yours. Don't forget that."

I nodded, but it felt hollow. Because the truth was, I hadn't just built OEO for me. I'd built it as a life I could offer someone I loved. And now, with every passing hour and unanswered moment between us, I was beginning to realize that love might not be enough to keep her here.

---

I found Rebecca out back, organizing inventory near the loading dock, sleeves rolled up and clipboard wedged under one arm. She looked up when she saw me and narrowed her eyes slightly, like she could already tell I wasn't here to talk about freight deliveries. "You're either here to confess a murder or finally admit you're spiraling," she said, leaning against a stack of boxed tents.

"Maybe both," I muttered, trying for a smile but failing. I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets and stared out toward the water. The lake was still. Too still. "She's slipping away, Beck."

Rebecca didn't interrupt. She just waited, letting the silence stretch until I filled it.

"I've tried. God, I've tried. I built this whole thing with her in mind. Every shelf, every stone in the flooring, every damn trail etched into that wall." I paused, jaw tight. "But lately, when she looks at me, I'm not sure she sees us anymore. I think she sees something... smaller. Like I'm a checkpoint on her way to something bigger. And maybe I'm selfish for wanting her to stay when her dream is pulling her somewhere else."

Rebecca exhaled slowly. "Matt," she said, voice softer than I expected, "you can love someone and still not be what they need. And that doesn't make you wrong. It just makes you real." She stepped closer, setting the clipboard down. "If she leaves, it won't be because you didn't fight. It'll be because life's messy and dreams are loud, and sometimes timing sucks. But if letting her go is the only way to keep her whole, then you love her enough to do it."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat burned with all the words I wasn't ready to say. So I just nodded, blinking hard against the weight in my chest. For the first time since I'd started building Olympic Edge, I let myself imagine opening the doors alone. And it broke my heart more than I expected.

_________________

The Offer Letter -

Erin:

I didn't sleep much the night before. I kept turning over, every shift of the sheets like a whisper against the silence. Matt had reached for me in his sleep once--just for a second--his hand grazing mine before drifting away. I stared at the ceiling after that, wondering if he knew. If somewhere in the fog of dreams, he could feel that I was already halfway gone.

The offer letter sat open on my laptop, the cursor blinking next to my name. It was everything I thought I wanted. A promotion, a title with weight, a seat at the table in the city that never slept. My name in conference rooms filled with possibility. But behind all of that was the quiet voice that asked: At what cost?

Matt made eggs that morning. He was quieter than usual, eyes thoughtful, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't find the opening. I couldn't either. We talked about the weather. A bike delivery. Carla's weird obsession with microwave oatmeal. And underneath it all was the echo of everything we weren't saying. He didn't mention his surprise again. I didn't ask. That made us even, I guess.

After he left, I sat at the kitchen table in my robe, coffee cold, cursor still blinking. My heart was beating too fast. I stared at the word "accept" like it was some kind of dare. Then I clicked it. Just like that. Done. I leaned back, swallowed hard, and waited for relief to wash over me.

It didn't. All I felt was the weight of it--the kind of heavy that settles in your chest and doesn't move. I closed the laptop, stood, and walked to the window. Outside, the clouds rolled in low and gray, thick with the kind of rain Seattle kept tucked behind its teeth. It felt like something was coming. And for the first time since Derek handed me that letter, I wasn't sure if I'd just changed my life--or broken something I couldn't put back together.

---

I texted Carla to meet me outside after lunch--just the two of us, no office buzz, no Derek hovering like a shadow in polished shoes. We ended up sitting on the low stone steps behind the building, coffee cups in hand, the sky just starting to spit that soft Seattle drizzle. She took one look at my face and sighed.

"You clicked it, didn't you?"

I nodded. "This morning."

Carla sipped her coffee, lips tight, like she was holding back a dozen versions of Are you sure? But instead, she said, "Well... congratulations, I guess."

I laughed, but it didn't sound convincing. "You guess?"

She looked at me sideways. "I know what this job means to you. I've seen you climb for it. Bleed for it. But Erin..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You said yes to something big--and you didn't tell the person you share your life with until after you said yes. That's not ambition. That's avoidance."

I looked down at my coffee. "I just need time to figure out how to say it."

She bumped my shoulder gently. "You're out of time, E. The flight's booked--even if you haven't told him you're boarding."

We sat there for a moment, the city soft and gray around us, the kind of stillness that only happens before everything starts moving too fast. And in that silence, I realized Carla was right.

---

The pen felt too heavy in my hand.

I'd pulled out one of Matt's notepads from the drawer--the ones he kept for sketching trail ideas or jotting down gear specs. The paper smelled like cedar and ink. It made everything feel more real. Too real. I sat at the kitchen table in one of his old hoodies, legs tucked up under me, the apartment still and dim. The kind of quiet that begged for answers I didn't have.

I stared at the blank page for a long time before finally writing:

Matt,

I don't even know how to start this.

I paused, tapping the pen against the edge of the table. My heart was a mess of guilt and longing and fear. I tried again.

This isn't the way I wanted to tell you. I should've said it sooner. I should've trusted you more with the truth--

I scratched the last line out. Too heavy. Too late.

There's an opportunity. New York. You probably guessed it, or maybe not. It's big. It's the kind of thing I used to dream about before we met. And now that it's real... I don't know what scares me more--saying yes, or walking away from you.

I stared at the page again, hand frozen.

There were so many things I wanted to add. That I still loved him. That I wasn't sure if this was goodbye or just a detour. That I wished we'd talked sooner. That maybe, if we had, none of this would feel like a fracture.

But I didn't write any of that. Not yet.

I just folded the half-written page and slid it between the pages of the trail guide on the coffee table--the one he always left open like a map to our shared future.

And then I sat there in the stillness, waiting for morning.

_________________

The Goodbye -

Erin:

I didn't sleep at all.

By the time the sun started to edge over the buildings, I was already dressed, suitcase zipped, apartment unnaturally silent. I moved through the space like I didn't want to disturb it--as if making too much noise might make it harder to walk out the door. Matt was still asleep, curled under the blanket, his hand outstretched toward my side of the bed. He looked peaceful. And that only made it worse.

I stood in the doorway for what felt like forever. I wanted him to wake up, to catch me. To stop me. I wanted an excuse not to go. But he didn't stir. And deep down, I knew this wasn't about him not caring--it was about me not giving him the chance to care out loud. I'd waited too long to say the things that mattered. And now I was saying them with a note in a book instead of my voice.

I left the envelope tucked in the trail guide on the table, right where I knew he'd find it. I didn't read it again. I couldn't. Every sentence felt like it was written by someone braver than I was now. I picked up my bag, walked to the door, and paused one last time. I looked back at the apartment, at the walls that had held laughter, and rainy afternoons, and late-night confessions. It still smelled like us--coffee, bike grease, and lavender shampoo. And I hated myself for leaving it behind.

Outside, the cab was waiting. I slid in, told the driver the airport, and kept my gaze fixed on the skyline as we pulled away. I didn't cry. Not yet. I just kept thinking about the look that might be on Matt's face when he read the note. Would he be angry? Heartbroken? Or would he already know? Would he whisper I knew it to an empty room, or worse, I saw this coming and couldn't stop it?

As the cab turned the corner and Lake Union came into view, I pressed my forehead to the glass. The water shimmered, calm and gray, like it always did. It looked like it was waiting for something. I just didn't know if it was me... or if I'd already left the only version of myself that belonged there behind.

-----------

Matt:

The first thing I noticed was the cold.

Her side of the bed was empty--blankets barely disturbed, pillow untouched. I reached out instinctively, like maybe she'd just gotten up early, maybe she was in the shower or making coffee. But the silence hit me. Not quiet. Empty. There was a difference, and I felt it like a drop in pressure before a storm.

I got up slowly, half expecting to see her on the couch with her laptop or rushing around getting ready for work. But the apartment was still. Clean. Too clean. Her coffee mug was gone. The shoes she always left by the door were missing. And then I saw it--the trail guide on the table, not where I'd left it, the pages slightly ajar like something had been slipped between them.

My chest tightened.

I stepped forward and pulled the note out with shaking fingers. My name was on the front in her handwriting--sharp, careful, familiar. I didn't open it right away. I just stood there, holding it, like maybe not reading it would make her still here. But that was a lie. Just like the timing. Just like all the things we didn't say to each other in the weeks leading up to this.

When I finally read the words--This isn't the way I wanted to tell you...--I didn't cry. Not at first. I just felt hollow. Like something had been pulled from me, and I hadn't even realized it was missing until now. I sat down on the couch, note in hand, staring at the door she'd walked out of. And all I could think was--I should've told her sooner. I should've made her see.

But I hadn't. And now, all I had was her absence, this note, and a store full of dreams she might never walk into.

_________________

Ribbons and Regret -

Matt:

The ribbon was cut at 10:02 a. m.

Cameras flashed. Applause echoed off the tall glass walls. Rebecca handed me the scissors like she was passing a torch, and I smiled for the press--steady, composed, picture-perfect. Behind me, the banner dropped: Olympic Edge Outfitters -- Explore More, Together. That last word hit me like a gut punch. Together. But as the streamers fell and the crowd moved inside, I felt anything but.

The store was beautiful. Polished wood, gear perfectly arranged, sunlight pouring through the skylights. Everything I had imagined and more. Customers wandered in, wide-eyed and curious, trailing their hands over tents, bikes, and kayaks. A kid squealed as he jumped onto the demo mountain bike. A woman asked about hiking packs with a gleam of adventure in her eye. This place was alive. It was breathing. And I'd never felt so numb in my life.

I kept looking toward the door. Stupid, I know. But part of me still expected her to walk in--late, laughing, apologizing about a work call or traffic, her eyes lighting up as she took it all in. I had imagined that moment more times than I could count. But the only thing waiting on the other side of that glass was reflection. Me, alone, in the middle of a dream that suddenly felt like someone else's.

Rebecca kept me moving--interviews, handshakes, store walkthroughs. She knew. She didn't say it out loud, but she knew. I caught her watching me once, her expression somewhere between sympathy and steel. After the ribbon-cutting, I slipped into the back office under the excuse of checking inventory. But really, I just needed a minute. I sat down, opened my laptop, and stared at a blank message addressed to Erin.

I typed three words: I miss you.

Then I hovered over the send button. Waited. Breathed. And hit delete.

Outside, the store buzzed with life. Inside, I sat alone with the sound of my own silence--and the one person I'd built this place for wasn't here to see it.

_________________

Echoes of Her -

Matt:

I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

The store was still buzzing when I ducked out the back, helmet in hand, rain already spitting from the sky like the city was in mourning with me. I didn't care. Some people drink, some people run--I ride. Always have. The rhythm of my legs, the bite of the cold air in my lungs, the hum of rubber on soaked pavement--those things make sense when nothing else does. I needed space. I needed motion. I needed her--and this was the only way I knew how to find the echo of what we were.

I rode out toward our trail--the one we always called ours, even though it belonged to everyone. The one she loved best on rainy days because "Seattle's soul comes out when it's wet." Her words. I hit the bend near the bluff and felt it all hit me at once--her laugh echoing down the path, the way she'd stand on the pedals just to race me up a hill, yelling, "Try to keep up, Bike Boy!" God, I could still hear it. And the quiet that followed hurt worse than anything she'd written in that note.

Halfway down the trail, I pulled off, breath shallow, legs burning. I stopped under that old cedar tree where we used to take breaks--her favorite spot. I leaned the bike against the trunk and dropped to the bench, water dripping from my helmet. I didn't cry. I just sat there, letting the weight of what wasn't anymore settle into my chest. I reached into the small pouch under my seat, looking for a protein bar, and my fingers brushed something papery.

A pressed flower.

Delicate. Flattened. Tucked inside a folded napkin. My hands went still. I opened it slowly. No note. Just the flower--something she must've left there months ago. I stared at it, throat tight. I could almost hear her voice: "For when I'm not here to keep you from overtraining."

I didn't move for a long time. Just sat there, the rain threading down through the trees, holding onto a piece of her I hadn't expected to find. And as the trail emptied around me and the sky darkened, I realized something painful and clear: she was gone. But she had never really left. Not from here. Not from me.

---

By the time I got back to the apartment, the rain had soaked through everything--my clothes, my shoes, the lining of my helmet. I peeled it all off at the door, leaving a trail of wet gear across the floor, too tired to care. The place smelled like cedar and detergent, like it always did. But it also smelled like absence. That kind of stillness you only notice when someone's truly gone.

I walked past the couch without sitting. Past the kitchen without glancing at the fridge, where her note had lived for a day and a half before I tucked it away in a drawer I hadn't opened since. Her mug was still in the sink. Her hair tie still on the nightstand. All those little artifacts she left behind that didn't know they were abandoned yet.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, still damp, and stared at the open closet door. Her half was empty. It hadn't been full to begin with--she was never the leave-clothes-everywhere type--but the space felt louder now. Like it was telling on me. On us.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I didn't cry. I wanted to, but there was nothing left. Just this dull, hollow ache behind my sternum. I thought about the flower from the trail, still safe in my jersey pocket. I thought about the way she used to hum when she worked late. I thought about what I would've said if I'd told her sooner. If I'd said, Please stay. Please.

Instead, I whispered it into the room, just in case it still remembered her.

"Please come back."

---

Three months later, the apartment felt different.

Not better. Not worse. Just... different. Her things were gone now. Not all at once--some had stayed longer than others, like echoes that didn't know when to leave. But eventually, the last of it disappeared. The toothbrush. The spare jacket. The book with her folded corner notes. I didn't throw them out. I boxed them up one day after work, slowly, carefully, like I was packing away a version of myself too.

Olympic Edge was doing well--better than expected. We'd opened a second location in Tacoma and were scouting a third near Wenatchee. The business was alive, moving, breathing without her. But some days I still walked through the flagship store and caught myself looking toward the door, wondering if she'd come walking in with coffee in one hand and curiosity in her eyes. I knew she wouldn't. But the reflex was hard to shake.

Rebecca kept me grounded. She never brought up Erin unless I did, and even then, she let me come to the edge of it without pushing me over. We talked about inventory, hiring, the future. Once, after a long staff meeting, she looked at me and said, "You're starting to sound like someone who believes in tomorrow again." I didn't know what to say to that, so I just smiled. But later, alone, I realized she was right. I was starting to believe in something again.

Most mornings, I still rode the trail Erin loved. Rain or shine. I stopped under the old cedar once a week, like ritual. The pressed flower was gone now--tucked safely in my journal. But I didn't need it to remember. The trail held her memory like roots held water. And that was enough. Some mornings I'd sit there and whisper things into the trees. Not for her to hear. For me to say.

And little by little, without ceremony or announcement, I started to breathe again.

_________________

East Coast Nights -

Erin:

New York didn't sleep, but I did. I had to. Because if I didn't, the silence between meetings would swallow me whole.

My days were a blur of sleek offices, glossy campaigns, and high-stakes clients who spoke in numbers and vision boards. I hit the ground running--landed the footwear account in my first month, got quoted in an industry blog, and Derek made a point to casually name-drop me in two leadership calls. On paper, I was thriving. Winning. Living the dream I'd told everyone I wanted. But somewhere between the late-night strategy decks and overpriced cocktails, I realized I wasn't sure whose dream this was anymore.

My apartment was small and expensive and came with a view of a brick wall. The kind of place that looked great in an Instagram story with the right filter. I filled it with sleek furniture, neutral tones, and decorative pillows I never touched. My coworkers envied the role, the skyline, the fast pace. Carla would've hated it. She would've called it "aspirational burnout." I laughed the first time I thought of that. Then I cried. Just for a minute.

Sometimes I'd pull up a news article about Olympic Edge Outfitters--scan for Matt's name, look for photos of the store or Rebecca. One day, there was a photo of him at a ribbon-cutting in Tacoma. He looked older. Not tired--just... grown. Like the edges of him had settled. He still wore that same navy button-up I loved. I stared at that picture longer than I should have, wondering if he still rode our trail. If he'd ever found the note I left behind.

Nights were the hardest. That was when the noise died down and the lights stayed on just a little too long. I'd lie in bed, surrounded by success, unable to sleep, wondering if ambition had always cost this much--or if I'd just stopped counting the price until it was too late. I had everything I said I wanted. But somewhere between Seattle and this skyline, I'd lost the only thing that ever felt like home.

_________________

Expansion -

Matt:

Growth looked good on paper.

OEO had gone from one flagship to four locations in less than a year. Tacoma opened strong. Bend was next. And we were already eyeing Eugene and Boise. I was hiring regional managers, streamlining logistics, fielding investor calls I never returned. People kept asking what the secret was. I always gave the same answer: Build something worth showing up for. But I never said the part that mattered--I built it for someone who never saw it open.

Rebecca officially took over the Seattle flagship. She ran it with the same mix of grit and warmth that had made Lake Side Cycles feel like home. Watching her work reminded me of what this all started as: a community, not a brand. A place for people like us--adventurers, wanderers, people who found purpose out there in the wild and wanted gear that could keep up. She kept me grounded. She always did. When she noticed me working late too often or dodging personal questions, she'd nudge but never pry.

One afternoon, I was walking the floor with her, clipboard in hand, half-listening to her updates on inventory turnover. She paused mid-sentence and said, "You know you're allowed to be proud of this, right?" I looked around the store. Polished. Full. Thriving. And still, something was missing. "I know," I said. But my voice didn't sound like someone who believed it.

That night, I went back to Lake City. To the old shop. It still smelled like rubber and rain and oil--still felt like mine. I found myself digging through a drawer in the back office until I pulled out a sketch Erin had doodled once on a sticky note--our original OEO logo idea. She drew it in pen, right there on the couch while I talked about the dream. I'd saved it, without thinking. Now it felt like a memory someone else had lived. I held it in my hand a long time before sliding it back in the drawer.

We were expanding. Outward. Fast. Everything I touched seemed to grow. But inside, nothing felt bigger. Just stretched thinner. I told myself it would pass. That one day I'd walk into one of these stores and not think of her. But I hadn't gotten there yet. And some part of me wasn't sure I wanted to.

---

The store had closed early for the night, and Rebecca and I were sitting in the back office. The light from the overheads cast long shadows across the room, and the hum of the fridge in the corner was the only sound, aside from the occasional shift of paper or the clink of coffee cups. I hadn't realized how much I needed the quiet until now--how much I'd been running from the stillness, even after all the expansion, the growth.

Rebecca set her cup down, eyes glancing over the sales projections from the week. "You're killing it, you know," she said softly, like she was still letting it sink in.

I shrugged, not fully convinced. "I'm just building things."

Her gaze shifted to me, sharp as always. "That's not all you're doing. You're creating something people care about. Something they need. That's worth something, Matt. I know you're not used to thinking like that, but I can see it. You're doing more than just business."

I didn't answer right away. Part of me wanted to argue--wanted to say that it was just a company, just inventory, just another product in a chain of them. But the other part of me, the one that had built OEO with everything I had, couldn't deny that there was a spark of truth in her words.

"Yeah, but..." I hesitated, looking out the window. The street was quiet, cars occasionally passing. "I built all this. And what do I have to show for it? A bunch of numbers on a screen, a bunch of places filled with stuff. I've been going full throttle since... since it all started. And now that it's here--now that it's real--it doesn't feel like enough."

Rebecca took a deep breath, as if she was trying to choose her words carefully. "I don't think it's supposed to feel like enough," she said. "I think fulfillment isn't something you get when you've crossed the finish line. It's something that grows as you walk. You're waiting for this moment to feel complete, like a lightbulb going off. But maybe it's not a moment at all. Maybe it's the small things that add up." She paused, watching me as if waiting for me to get it.

"Small things?"

"Yeah. Like, when you see someone walk out of this store with a pack that's going to help them take the hike they've been dreaming about. Or when you know your gear is what's going to keep someone safe on a trail that's pushed them to their limit. That's fulfillment. It's the doing, Matt. Not the end."

I let her words sink in. The doing. I'd been focused on the destination--the goal of making this the outdoor lifestyle brand. But what if the fulfillment had always been in the moments I'd been passing by? The conversations with customers. The small victories. The doing of it all.

"I think you might be right," I said, finally looking back at her.

Rebecca smiled, a small but knowing smile. "I know I'm right."

For a long moment, we just sat there, letting the weight of what she'd said settle. I could hear the city outside, the hum of the world continuing on, but in that quiet space, something felt clearer. Maybe I didn't have to have everything figured out. Maybe I just needed to keep walking, to keep doing, and let the moments find me.

---

Rebecca and I were still sitting in the back office, a large whiteboard covered with plans for the next three months. New store openings, regional managers to hire, inventory allocations. It was all there--organized, methodical. It was everything I had been trained to focus on. But there was something nagging at the back of my mind. The expansion. The growth. It felt endless. And I wasn't sure anymore if it was fulfilling me the way I thought it would.

"Alright," Rebecca said, clicking her pen and turning toward the board. "Next stop: Portland. Then Boise, right?"

I nodded, rubbing my eyes. "Yeah. We've already got the locations lined up. The contracts are in place. But I'm starting to wonder..." I trailed off, trying to organize my thoughts. "We're growing. Expanding. But at what point do we stop? I don't want to just build a franchise empire. I want this place to have soul. To matter."

Rebecca looked at me for a long moment, brow furrowed. "What do you mean? It matters. Every store matters. People care. Hell, we've built a brand that's got legs. We're reaching people we didn't even think we'd reach. What's the problem?"

I exhaled, leaning back in my chair. "I don't know. I guess I'm getting lost in the mechanics of it. The numbers, the logistics, the real estate deals. But what about why we started this? What happened to that? Remember when we were just a small bike shop with an idea and a passion to help people experience the outdoors? That's what it was about. Now it feels like we're just trying to outgrow ourselves."

Rebecca studied me for a long time, her expression unreadable. She didn't immediately respond. Instead, she got up and walked over to the board, tapping a couple of locations marked for expansion.

"Yeah," she said, "I get it. You're talking about the heart of it. And I agree with you. But we're not just small anymore. We're a big deal, Matt. We're building something that's got potential to change the outdoor retail space, to change lives. But we can't do that without making some hard choices. The heart's in the doing. The passion is in the day-to-day."

She turned back to me, leaning against the desk now, arms crossed. "You think I don't feel the same things you do? I do. But I'm also looking at what's happening here, and it's more than just you and me. It's our team, it's our customers, it's the people who are putting their trust in us. It's bigger than we ever thought it could be."

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of me. "But what if we grow too fast? What if we lose what made us us? What if we lose our connection to the people we started this for?"

Rebecca sighed, sitting down across from me. "You're right. Growth has a cost. But you're not doing this alone. I'm with you, Matt. Every step of the way. You know I've got your back, and I believe in this just as much as you do. We've always been good at adapting. And we'll keep adapting. As long as we stay true to the people we care about, to the experiences we're giving people, we won't lose that connection."

She paused, meeting my gaze. "But you've got to trust yourself too. You've built this. You've earned the right to be a little uncomfortable. But don't lose your nerve now. You're ready for this. We both are."

I didn't know what to say. I just nodded, feeling the weight of her words sink in. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn't about the end goal. Maybe it was about trusting the process, trusting the people around me, and staying grounded in the heart of it. Even if that meant making some hard decisions along the way.

"Alright," I said finally, standing up and grabbing my jacket. "Let's talk numbers. Let's talk about how we make this next phase work without losing sight of what it means."

Rebecca smiled, sliding her pen back into her bag. "That's what I'm talking about. Let's build this thing the right way."

_________________

Coffee and Chemistry -

Matt:

The sound of tires crunching over gravel and the faint buzz of chatter filled the air as I parked my bike at the charity cycling event, my muscles still humming from the ride. It felt good to be on the road again. After a year of constant motion with OEO--new stores, new responsibilities, endless decisions--I'd forgotten how it felt to just ride. To let the pedals move the world around you and drown out everything else.

I was unstrapping my helmet when a voice called out from behind me, warm and light with a hint of humor.

"Didn't expect to see someone that serious about the event. You planning to race or just out here for the charity?"

I turned, a little surprised, and saw her--Ava. She was leaning against a bike rack, her helmet tucked under one arm, eyes smiling as if she knew exactly what she was doing. The first thing I noticed was her energy. The way she was present--like she had the ability to make a space feel warmer just by walking into it.

"I'm serious about both," I said, my tone a little playful. "The ride's good. The cause is better."

She grinned, a little wicked. "I'm all about the cause. I might even donate if I get a chance to take you on in the final lap."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want to challenge me? I think you're underestimating how much I love winning."

Her laugh was quick, genuine--something about it felt effortless. And I felt the kind of pull I hadn't expected. It wasn't that I was looking for anyone else. But in that moment, there was something about her warmth, her confidence, the way she carried herself that made me pause. It had been a year since Erin left. A year since I'd built all of this--OEO, the expansion, everything--and realized that no matter how much I'd built, I was still trying to fill a space that couldn't be filled.

We started chatting casually as we walked over to the registration table. Ava was smart, funny, with that blend of confidence and humility I hadn't realized I'd missed. She was a consultant--worked in urban planning, which was a world I knew little about but found fascinating as she spoke about it. And, of course, we swapped a few cycling tips, though I didn't think much of it until she said, "You know, there's a good coffee shop around the corner after the ride. If you're up for it, I can give you my 'best-kept-secret' list of local spots."

The idea of sitting down for coffee with her wasn't a question, but more a pull I couldn't ignore. It had been a long time since someone felt so easy to talk to, so comfortable in their own skin. It reminded me of something I used to know--a feeling I hadn't experienced in months, maybe longer.

As the event kicked off, I found myself distracted by her. Not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made me think, What would it feel like to let someone new into my life? To sit across from someone who wasn't part of the past. I didn't know yet, but that pull--something simple, uncomplicated--felt different. Something I hadn't realized I'd been missing.

---

After the ride, I didn't think twice before following Ava to the coffee shop. We didn't talk much during the last stretch of the event--just the occasional exchange of competitive taunts and laughter--but when we hit the finish line, I was already looking forward to this. The place she suggested was a hole-in-the-wall café tucked between two high-rises, the kind you would miss if you weren't looking for it. I could already smell the rich espresso from the sidewalk.

We walked inside, and Ava ordered first, her voice warm and easy as she interacted with the barista, who clearly knew her by name. I stood off to the side, watching, noting the ease with which she navigated the space. There was something about it--about her--this quiet confidence that didn't need to demand attention. She just had a way of filling a room, of making everything feel like it mattered. When she came over with her cappuccino, she handed me a coffee menu with a grin.

"Your turn. I'm taking over this conversation, but you can at least pick the drink," she teased.

I smiled, stepping up to the counter. "Alright, alright. I'll take something with a little kick. I'm going to need it if I'm going to keep up with you."

Ava's eyes sparkled with laughter. "You're gonna need more than coffee, trust me." She leaned back in her seat as I grabbed a cold brew, and we found a small table by the window, the early afternoon sun spilling across the wooden floors. The noise of the city outside faded as we sat down, and I felt something shift in the air between us. The conversation was easy, almost too easy.

"So," she said, swirling her drink thoughtfully, "what's your story, Matt? How'd a guy like you end up building an empire like OEO?"

I hadn't expected that question. Most people didn't ask it quite so bluntly. But I liked it. I liked her curiosity, the lack of pretense. It made it feel like I didn't have to hide behind the polished image I'd built up for so long.

"I'm not sure if it's an empire," I said, leaning back in my chair. "More like a very well-organized pile of dreams. It started small--Lake Side Cycles, a shop in the Lake City neighborhood. My parents helped me get it off the ground." I paused for a moment, memories flooding in. "But it was always more than just bikes. I wanted to create something that connected people to nature, to the outdoors. Something real."

Ava listened intently, her eyes never leaving mine, her posture relaxed. There was no judgment there, no need to fill the space with advice or expectations. She just listened.

"And then you built the OEO thing," she said after a moment. "Now it's everywhere. That's pretty impressive."

"Yeah, I guess," I muttered, looking down at my coffee. "But it's complicated. There's a part of me that's proud of it, and then there's a part that... wonders if it was ever about more than just growth." I hadn't meant to say that last part, but it felt like the right time. "The more it grew, the less I understood about what I was building. And sometimes I think I did it because I thought it would fill the hole I didn't know was there."

Ava didn't say anything for a moment. She just took a sip of her drink, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the cup. "I think you're still figuring that out," she said finally. "But that's okay. Maybe that's what makes it worth it."

I blinked at her, not expecting that answer. "What do you mean?"

"Building something, I mean. Sometimes you don't know exactly what you're creating until it's finished. But the process--the work, the mistakes, the people you meet along the way--that's where the value is."

I leaned back in my chair, considering her words. There was something in the way she spoke that made sense. Something I hadn't been able to articulate for myself. It was like she could see into the spaces I didn't want to fill with words. And, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe without carrying the weight of all the unanswered questions.

"So, what about you?" I asked, finally pushing my curiosity back toward her. "What's your story?"

Ava smiled, a small, easy smile that somehow made the room feel even quieter. "Oh, me? I just got tired of making other people's cities work. I wanted to make one of my own."

"Making cities work?" I asked, intrigued. "That sounds like something I would've thought was way too boring for me."

She laughed. "I bet you'd be surprised." Then she leaned forward, lowering her voice. "But it's about design. It's about shaping spaces for people to thrive. You should see some of the projects I'm working on. They're not just about building something. They're about making it mean something."

I found myself leaning in, the easy flow of conversation pulling me in deeper. "I'd like to see that."

And just like that, it felt like something new was beginning. Not in the way I expected, not with grand gestures or declarations, but in the simple act of sitting here with someone who didn't know me, who wasn't tangled up in my past. For the first time in a while, I felt like I could let myself be curious again. About her. About what we could build. About me.

-----------

Ava:

I didn't expect to feel so comfortable with Matt.

When I first saw him at the charity ride, I didn't think much of it. He was just another guy in the sea of cyclists, all wearing the same gear, all trying to look like they were racing when they were just there for the cause. But there was something about him--something in the way he carried himself, so quiet yet confident. He had that kind of look. The one that made you think, There's more to him than meets the eye.

When he made that little joke about needing more than coffee to keep up with me, I didn't expect to feel that pull. It wasn't attraction in the way people think of it, not yet anyway, but something deeper, something quieter. It was the kind of energy that made you want to stay present in the moment with him, to learn more, to understand what made him tick. I didn't think about it too much--just a friendly exchange after a ride.

But then we sat down at that little café. I watched him order without hesitation, his voice steady, sure of what he wanted. And when he spoke about OEO, I saw the passion in his eyes. Not the kind that people flaunt or boast about, but the quiet, steady kind that runs deep and lingers. He was building something meaningful, something that people depended on. I could see it in the way he held himself. But there was an underlying sadness to it too. As if he was still looking for something that he hadn't found yet.

When I asked him about the brand, I didn't expect him to answer so honestly. He didn't just talk about the business side of things. He talked about the emotional weight of it--how he built it for someone, how that vision kept evolving. I could hear the conflict in his voice. The success was tangible, but there was something that gnawed at him. Something missing.

As we sat there, sipping our drinks, I noticed the way he looked at me--like he was figuring me out, seeing beyond the surface. I hadn't expected that, either. People usually saw me as one thing: the consultant, the career-driven woman with her life mapped out. But Matt? He wasn't treating me like that. He was curious. Real. And for the first time in a while, I felt like I could just be me--no pretenses, no expectations.

I found myself sharing more than I normally would have. About the city projects I was working on, the designs that excited me, the dream of shaping spaces for people to thrive. I could see the intrigue in his eyes, the way he listened carefully, like he was trying to understand the essence of who I was and what motivated me. And when he said, "I'd like to see that," it hit me in a way I hadn't anticipated. It wasn't just a casual remark. There was sincerity in his voice, a kind of openness that felt rare.

I wasn't sure where this would go, or if it would go anywhere at all. But sitting here, in this little café with him, talking about our worlds and finding some quiet common ground, I realized something--I was enjoying myself. More than I had in a long time. And maybe, just maybe, that was worth exploring.

---

The second time we met up was for a late lunch. Ava suggested it. I was still a little surprised by how easily she'd slipped into my life, how comfortable I was just being around her. It had only been a few weeks since that coffee shop conversation, but it felt like we'd known each other longer.

I was a little early, waiting at the café's outdoor table. The sun had come out after a few days of rain, and I couldn't help but smile at how it felt--like something had finally shifted. I looked around, wondering if this was the start of something real or just another distraction. But I wasn't sure anymore if I cared either way.

When she arrived, she was holding a small bouquet of flowers--just a few wildflowers tied together loosely. "Thought you might like these," she said, grinning as she handed them over. "I couldn't resist when I passed that stand on the corner."

I took them from her, a little stunned. "You brought me flowers?"

She laughed lightly, sitting down across from me. "They're nothing special. Just a little something."

I studied them for a moment, trying to read the gesture. Maybe it was small, but it felt significant. More than just friendly. "Thank you," I said quietly, feeling like I was already catching onto something deeper.

Over lunch, the conversation flowed easier this time. We talked about everything and nothing--work, personal goals, travel plans, and the quirks of city living. The kind of easy banter that only happened when you felt like you were getting to know someone on a deeper level.

At one point, as I was telling her about my latest project with OEO's expansion into new markets, she interrupted me with a question. "What about you, Matt? Not the stores. Not the business. What do you want?"

I paused, caught off guard by the question. It wasn't one I'd been asked in a while. I'd been so wrapped up in OEO, in what needed to be done, that I hadn't really given myself much space to think about what I wanted.

I shrugged, trying to play it off. "I don't know. I guess I just want to make something that lasts. Something that matters." My words hung there for a moment, and I could see the way she was looking at me--not with pity or expectation, but with curiosity.

"That's a pretty big goal for one person," she said, her voice soft. "Maybe you should start with something smaller. Something you can hold onto."

I looked at her, intrigued by the way she spoke. There was a wisdom to her that felt grounded. A kind of quiet confidence I admired. I hadn't realized until now how much I needed someone who could challenge me, who wasn't afraid to ask the hard questions.

We finished our lunch, and when the check came, I was ready to reach for it, but she beat me to it. "My turn," she said, eyes twinkling. "You've been buying coffee. I'll get lunch."

I raised an eyebrow, teasing. "You sure? I can't let you take over everything."

She grinned. "Not everything. Just lunch today." She handed me my change and stood up. "Come on, let's take a walk. I know a spot nearby."

I followed her out, the cool breeze brushing past us, and for the first time in a while, I felt lighter. Like I was exactly where I needed to be--walking alongside someone who wasn't holding me to any expectations but who still made me feel seen.

We walked through the park, talking about random things--movies we liked, books we'd read, old memories from when we'd both lived in different cities. And as the day went on, the silence between us felt more comfortable, like two people who had somehow found a rhythm together.

By the time we sat on the grass, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the trees. Ava turned to me, her expression thoughtful. "You know," she said quietly, "sometimes I think we spend so much time thinking about what we're building that we forget to enjoy it. The little things."

I nodded, watching the evening light shift across her face. I hadn't realized how much I needed this--to slow down, to just be.

"I think you're right," I said softly. "Maybe I've been too focused on the future." I looked at her, and for the first time in months, I felt a kind of peace settle over me. Maybe there was more to life than just building something big. Maybe it was about the people we met along the way, the connections that quietly shift and grow into something that really matters.

She smiled, as if she could read my thoughts. "You know," she said with a wink, "if you ever want to build something with a view, I know a few places in the city where the sunsets are worth it."

I chuckled, feeling the weight of my past--of Erin, of the empty space I had been trying to fill--drift away just a little. Perhaps there was room for something new.

-----------

Erin:

I sat in the sleek, modern apartment, overlooking the city that I'd once thought would fulfill every piece of me. The lights twinkled below, a constant hum of movement, of life. But inside, there was an absence. It wasn't just the quiet apartment I'd barely decorated--though that was part of it--but more than that. It was the growing sense that the life I'd been so eager to build was a little less than I thought it would be.

I pulled up the email draft again, still half-written, from a week ago when I'd opened it for the first time. The New York offer, a shiny new version of the future I'd imagined for myself. The one I'd spent years chasing. The one I told myself I needed. The one I had said yes to when it came knocking.

And yet, every time I sat here, in the corner of this apartment, with everything I'd ever dreamed of right in front of me, it didn't feel like enough. The accolades, the opportunities, the bright lights--it was supposed to fill the space. But instead, it felt like I was still carrying something heavy, like I had abandoned something without realizing it.

I glanced at the desk where my phone sat, still buzzing with messages and emails. I had to reply to the client. There was a project proposal due by the end of the day. I was in high demand. I had everything I was supposed to want. So why did it feel like the city, despite its endless energy, was swallowing me whole?

I thought of Matt. The way he'd looked when I last saw him--standing in the store, eyes serious, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. I didn't know how to read it then. And maybe that was the problem--I never really asked. I didn't give him the space to say it. I didn't give myself the space to listen. But I knew, deep down, I was still holding on to a version of him I wasn't ready to let go of. I'd been so focused on my own ascent that I hadn't even stopped to wonder if he'd stopped waiting for me to return.

It was the strangest thing. There was no one here to ask the hard questions. No one here to help me figure out if this was the life I wanted. Not Derek, not my coworkers, not even the sleek skyline that seemed to taunt me with its promises.

It was in the quiet moments, when I wasn't rushing to the next thing or filling my schedule with clients, that I felt the distance. The silence between us had settled into me like a part of who I was now. And I wondered if that was enough. If I was enough.

I stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city again, the same view I'd had every day since I'd arrived. The night felt different tonight. The hum of the city was quieter, and I found myself wondering if I'd ever really left the life I had with Matt--or if I was simply too afraid to face what I had been leaving behind.

---

The apartment felt colder now, the empty space around me a physical reminder of the life I'd built for myself here--a life I thought I wanted, but now felt more like an illusion. I kept looking out the window, trying to take in the view, trying to find some connection to this place, but all I could think about was the weight of what I'd left behind.

It wasn't that New York wasn't everything I had imagined--it was. The energy, the buzz, the potential. I'd hit the ground running and never looked back. But something inside me had changed since I arrived. I was constantly moving forward, chasing the next goal, the next promotion, the next achievement. But there was a quiet part of me--the part I didn't want to acknowledge--that kept pulling me backward, back to Seattle, back to Matt.

I hadn't let myself think about him too much at first. When I arrived, it felt like I had to dive into everything this city had to offer, to prove that I could do this on my own. I couldn't afford to be distracted by the life I had left behind. But the more I immersed myself in the fast-paced world of the city, the more I felt the distance between us. It wasn't just the physical space that separated us--it was the emotional gap that had grown between us without either of us realizing it.

I found myself looking at old pictures, not of me here in New York, but of moments I shared with him. Our hikes. Late-night conversations. Laughs that came from nowhere, filling the air with something real. When I thought about it now, it wasn't just the life we'd built. It was the way he'd made me feel like I belonged in his world, like I was a part of something bigger. He was steady. Calm. He was everything I wasn't, and everything I thought I needed.

I had made a decision to leave because I thought it was the only way to grow. But somewhere between the skyscrapers and the crowded subway rides, I realized that I hadn't been growing at all. I had been running. Running from a love that had made me feel more connected to myself than any career or city ever could. Running from a future I wasn't ready to face, because it was easier to chase the glitter of success than confront the hollow ache that had quietly followed me across the country.

The email draft to Derek sat open on my laptop again. I hadn't sent it yet, hadn't officially accepted the next big offer that had come my way. It was a big step. A dream fulfilled. Or so I had told myself. But now, the idea of clicking "Send" felt like I was making a permanent choice--a choice that would lock me into a future I didn't know if I wanted. I stared at the cursor, blinking, and for the first time in months, I asked myself the question I hadn't been brave enough to ask before: What happens if I choose something else?

-----------

Matt:

The days after our last coffee date passed quickly, the way they always seem to when you're trying to outrun something. Work was consuming--expansion plans for OEO, calls to suppliers, new hires to manage--but even in the midst of all the chaos, my thoughts kept drifting back to Ava. I didn't call it anything at first, not really. I just knew that I was looking forward to seeing her, to the way she made everything feel lighter, even when the world felt heavy.

Our next few meetups were casual at first--another lunch, another ride, a few impromptu runs to the coffee shop down the street. We shared stories from our pasts--hers filled with city planning and design projects, mine with the hustle of building something from the ground up. There was an easy rhythm between us, a kind of mutual understanding that didn't need to be explained. She got what it meant to build something that mattered, even if the cost wasn't always clear.

One Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves on another trail ride. It had rained earlier, the ground slick with mud, the air crisp in a way that made everything smell sharper. We rode side by side, not racing this time, just moving--feeling the world around us instead of running through it. Ava kept pushing me to go faster, to take risks, as she always did. Her confidence in the ride mirrored something in her that I hadn't fully noticed until now: she didn't shy away from anything. Not the ride. Not life. Not me.

We stopped at a clearing halfway up the trail, the city skyline peeking through the trees in the distance. We dismounted, taking a moment to catch our breath. I noticed the way Ava looked at the view, how her expression softened when she saw the stretch of green between the buildings.

"This is what I miss," she said, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. "The quiet. The space. I didn't realize how much I needed it until I got here. City life's great, but... it's easy to forget how good it feels to be this close to something that doesn't need anything from you."

I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. I had spent the last year running, building, chasing after something that I wasn't sure I even wanted anymore. But out here, on this trail, the world felt simple. It felt like it could wait, like the noise of everything could just stop for a while.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I think I forgot that too."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, as if trying to see beyond the walls I'd built for myself. "You don't always have to keep building, you know," she said, her voice softer now. "Sometimes it's okay to just... be. To just enjoy what you've built. Even if it's just for a little while."

Her words hit harder than I expected. I didn't know if she meant them for me, or if she was talking about herself. But something shifted in that moment--something unspoken. I realized that I wasn't the only one carrying the weight of expectations. She was too. But we were both learning, in our own way, how to put that down.

As we sat down on a fallen log and took a break, I found myself opening up in a way I hadn't planned. "I'm not sure where I'm going with all of this," I admitted, my voice low. "The business, the expansion--it's all so big, but it doesn't feel... real sometimes. It feels like I've been building something for everyone else, and I don't know if it's what I really want anymore."

Ava was quiet for a moment, considering me, and then she said, "Maybe what you want is right in front of you, Matt. You don't always have to figure it out all at once."

I looked at her, surprised by the depth of her insight. She had this way of seeing through all the layers I'd carefully built up. It was unsettling, but also... comforting in a way I didn't fully understand.

She smiled, and for a moment, I could've sworn I saw something softer in her eyes. "Don't forget to live for yourself too, okay?"

I smiled back, a little unsure, but grateful. "I'll try."

As we continued the ride back down, the pace slowed. The conversation shifted to lighter topics--music, favorite hiking spots, plans for the weekend--but the underlying current between us had changed. We were starting to understand each other in a way that was beginning to feel more real than any of the casual conversations we'd shared before. It was like we were both shedding something, slowly, layer by layer, and finding out that the pieces we had in common were far more important than the ones that set us apart.

I didn't know what this connection meant. Not yet. But as I glanced over at her, laughing at something I'd said, I realized I didn't need to figure it out. Not today, anyway. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was just here, and that was enough.

---

The days blurred together after that ride, but in a way that felt different. Ava and I kept meeting up--riding, grabbing coffee, sometimes just walking around the city, enjoying the little pockets of stillness we could find in the chaos. We were both busy, no question about it, but there was always a moment in the day when I'd find myself thinking about her. Not in the rushed way I'd thought about work or the next project, but in the way you think about someone who's starting to feel like part of your routine.

I wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point, it felt less like two people casually spending time together and more like two people sharing pieces of their lives. She showed me her favorite spots in the city--hidden galleries, quiet bars with low-lit booths, a park bench overlooking a view of the skyline she loved. In turn, I started taking her to places that had become my sanctuaries--the quiet trail spots outside of town, the local coffee shop where I used to go to clear my head, even the back office at OEO when I needed a second set of eyes on a new project.

One evening, after a particularly busy week at the store, we ended up sitting outside at a small Italian restaurant just off the beaten path. It was a Friday, the kind of day where you're more than ready for the week to end but also somehow hoping the day never does. Ava sat across from me, her laughter light as we chatted about everything from childhood memories to our worst travel experiences. I was still amazed by how easily she could make something as ordinary as sharing a plate of pasta feel like an adventure.

The evening had that calm air to it--when the city starts to quiet down, and you can feel the weight of a week lifting. Ava smiled at me over her glass of wine, her eyes brighter than the soft glow of the string lights overhead.

"You know," she said, setting her fork down with a thoughtful expression, "I've been thinking about what you said the other day, about needing to live for yourself."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Yeah?"

She nodded, the soft smile still tugging at her lips. "I think you're right. I've been so caught up in building something here, pushing toward the next big thing that I've forgotten to just enjoy the ride. You know?" She paused, giving me a searching look. "And I think you're still figuring that out too."

I didn't know how to respond. She was right. I had been moving forward for so long--focused on the next milestone, the next expansion, the next thing--that I hadn't stopped to check if any of it was truly what I wanted. It was easier to focus on work, on the business, on the tangible. But with Ava, I felt like I was starting to feel again, like I could step away from all the noise and just be present in the moment. And for the first time in ages, I realized that being present didn't have to mean doing everything perfectly. It just meant being real.

"I get that," I said quietly, leaning back in my chair. "I've been so caught up in what's next that I forgot to think about why I'm doing any of it."

She studied me for a moment, eyes searching mine, and something in her expression shifted. "So what do you think you're really after, Matt? What's your next step?"

It was a question I hadn't been ready to answer, but there it was--direct and unguarded, something that made me pause for longer than I expected. The future had always been this thing I was chasing, this idea of success I was trying to carve into reality. But sitting here, across from Ava, something felt different. It was as if I was being invited to think about my life in a way I hadn't before.

"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty surprising me. "I think maybe... I want to create something that feels like it matters. Not just because it's big or successful, but because it means something to the people who experience it. And maybe I need to start looking at my own life the same way. Not just building to build."

Ava's smile softened, like she understood exactly what I meant. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against mine in a casual, yet somehow intimate gesture. "That's a start," she said. "The rest of it will come."

For a moment, we just sat there, the city fading around us, the noise turning to background hum. In that moment, I realized that what I had with Ava wasn't something I needed to rush into or figure out immediately. It was something that was unfolding naturally, like it had always been there, quietly waiting for me to see it.

_________________

Carla Quits -

Erin:

The day Carla quit wasn't the day I expected.

We'd been working late for weeks, trying to get the latest campaign off the ground, managing new clients, navigating endless meetings with Derek, all while the pressure of doing more hung heavy over every single decision. I thought I had it all figured out--at least, I thought I did. New York, the promotion, the acknowledgment. Everything was supposed to fall into place.

But when Carla sent that resignation email from her phone, sitting across from me in our cramped office, it hit me harder than I expected.

"Are you serious?" I asked, staring at her phone screen, trying to process the words. I could feel the tension building in my chest, the rush of something--regret? confusion? fear?--spinning inside me. Carla was one of the few constants in my life here. I'd counted on her. She was my sounding board, the one who kept me grounded when I'd get caught up in the rush of city life, in the rush of chasing after what I thought I wanted.

"I'm serious," she said, not looking up from her phone as she clicked through the final details. She didn't sound angry or upset, just... resigned. "I can't do this anymore, Erin."

I shook my head, disbelief creeping in. "You've been working here for how long? And now you're just--quitting?" I wanted to understand. I needed to understand. "What about everything we've worked for?"

Carla set her phone down, finally meeting my eyes. She sighed, a long exhale like she'd been carrying this weight for far too long. "It's not enough anymore. I'm exhausted. I need something different."

I stared at her, my mind racing. What was she saying? Wasn't this what we both wanted? A chance to prove ourselves? To climb the corporate ladder? To be seen, to make something of ourselves in this high-pressure world of deadlines and performance reviews? I had always known that Carla was cynical, but this? This felt like something else. She wasn't just tired of the job; she was tired of chasing something that didn't matter to her anymore.

"I'm sorry, Erin," she said softly, her voice carrying a sadness I hadn't expected. "But I'm not happy. And I think you're not either. At least, not really."

Her words felt like a punch in the gut, something that had been coming for a while but I hadn't wanted to see. "What are you talking about?"

She smiled faintly, but it wasn't the kind of smile I was used to. This one felt more like pity, like she could see right through me. "You've got everything, Erin. The job, the title, the praise. But it doesn't fill you. Not really."

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. I wanted to protest, to tell her she was wrong, to say that this was exactly what I'd wanted, that I had worked hard for this. But I couldn't find the words. Because deep down, I knew she was right.

The truth hit me slowly, the way something cold seeps into your bones when you don't notice it at first. I was empty. Not in the way I thought I would be. Not in the way I expected to feel from failure, but in the way that comes when you've built something so tall that it no longer feels like your own.

I glanced at Carla, watching her gather her things, her resolve final. "Are you sure?" I asked, more softly now, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time. Doubt. Not just about her decision, but about my own.

Carla stood, her hand on the back of her chair. She didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I'm sure."

As she left, I sat there in the silence of the office, staring at the email she'd sent. The weight of it settled in my chest. She had been right all along. It wasn't the job or the title that I was missing. It was the life--the connection to something more than the endless climb. The world I'd been running toward wasn't as shiny as I'd imagined. And the emptiness I'd been trying to fill wasn't going to be solved by more clients, more accolades, or a bigger title. It was something deeper. Something I had been trying to outrun, just like Carla.

I knew what I had to do next, but I didn't want to face it. I wasn't ready to stop chasing the dream I'd convinced myself I wanted. Not yet.

But for the first time in a long while, I wondered if maybe it was time to start asking myself the right questions.

-----------

Matt:

A few weeks had passed since our last ride, and somehow, I found myself looking forward to seeing Ava more than I expected. It wasn't a rush, wasn't a pressure--just a quiet, undeniable pull. Every time we met, it felt like we were both a little less guarded, a little more ourselves, and that was something I hadn't had in a while. I hadn't expected to need that connection with someone else so soon, but with Ava, it felt... easy.

Tonight, we decided to go for a late dinner at a small spot in the city. The kind of place where the lights were dim, the food was simple but perfect, and you didn't have to shout over the noise of the crowd. I'd gotten used to eating out alone, to being absorbed in work or my thoughts or even the quiet hum of the city. But tonight, I was already thinking about the conversation we'd have, the laughter we'd share. And for the first time in a while, it wasn't about filling a void. It was just... about being.

When she arrived, there was no need for the usual casual greeting. No forced smiles, no small talk. Just an easy smile from her as she slid into the booth across from me. I noticed the way she'd dressed--casual but with something more. A blazer over a simple tee, her hair loosely styled, looking effortlessly perfect.

"I'm glad you suggested this place," I said, leaning back, feeling comfortable already. "It's a good spot. Quiet."

She smiled, glancing around at the small, dimly lit space. "I thought you might like it. Sometimes, a little quiet is exactly what you need."

I nodded, my eyes catching hers for a moment before she lowered them to the menu. I couldn't help but watch her. The way she tilted her head when she spoke, how her lips moved when she laughed. It was the kind of thing you don't notice at first but, after time, becomes the thing you look for.

After we ordered, we sat back, letting the conversation flow naturally. The topic of the night seemed to veer toward everything we had in common--the way we both found solace in the outdoors, the quiet power of a good ride, the satisfaction of a well-built project. I told her more about OEO, about the early days when it had been just an idea and some rough sketches, and how I'd worried for a while that I was only chasing something to fill the hole left behind by Erin.

Ava listened closely, never interrupting, nodding thoughtfully. "It sounds like you've been building something amazing," she said. "But it's hard to separate the 'what' from the 'why,' isn't it? I think that's where most people get stuck. You build something because you think it's what you need, but sometimes, it's not until later that you realize it wasn't about the thing at all. It was about the who."

Her words hit me harder than I expected. I looked at her, really looked at her, and realized I had been so focused on the what for the past year--on the business, on expansion, on making it successful--that I hadn't paused to ask why I was doing any of it. I hadn't asked myself why I was building it. Not just for the customers, not just for the community. But for me.

"Yeah," I said, my voice quieter than usual. "I think I've been running from a lot of things. Just trying to prove something to myself. And maybe... maybe it wasn't what I needed to prove at all."

Ava's eyes softened, and for a moment, we sat in the quiet, letting the weight of those words settle between us. It wasn't uncomfortable, though. It felt real. Like a conversation that actually mattered, not just about work or about filling spaces, but about our lives. About our choices.

The waiter brought our drinks, and we clinked glasses before returning to the easy rhythm of our conversation. But something had shifted between us. It wasn't just the words we shared or the moments that felt comfortable--it was that undercurrent of understanding, of unspoken connection.

By the time we finished dinner, the air had turned cooler, the streets of the city beginning to empty out. We walked slowly down the sidewalk, our steps in sync, the sounds of the city fading as we entered a quieter part of town. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes, but it wasn't awkward. It was just a natural kind of silence, the kind that didn't need words to fill the space.

As we reached the corner, Ava stopped and turned toward me. Her expression was open, unguarded, and I felt the same pull I'd felt before, stronger now, as if we were standing on the edge of something that neither of us quite knew how to name.

"I'm glad we did this," she said, her voice quiet.

"Me too," I replied, smiling a little. "I'm glad you're here."

For a long moment, we just stood there, the city buzzing softly around us. And in that silence, in that unspoken space between us, I realized something I hadn't fully grasped until then: This was what I had been searching for. Not just success. Not just building something. But someone who made me feel seen. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself acknowledge that maybe this was where I was supposed to be.

-----------

Erin:

It's been a year and a half since I left Seattle.

A year and a half since I told myself that New York was the place where I'd finally feel whole. The place where everything would click into place. I was sure of it at the time. Ambition had always been the driving force in my life, and this was the next step--the one I had worked for, the one I thought would bring the validation I needed. I moved here for success, for the future I imagined. I didn't know then that leaving behind the comfort of everything familiar would leave an emptiness that neither career nor city lights could fill.

The apartment I'm in is sleek, modern, and efficient--everything I told myself I needed. Every piece of furniture, every art piece was carefully chosen. I've created a life here, a beautiful, curated version of the one I thought I wanted. But it feels... lonely. The kind of lonely that sneaks up on you when you're busy with work, with deadlines, with endless projects and meetings. The kind of loneliness you can't outrun by staying busy.

Sometimes, after a long day, when the city starts to settle down and the noise dims just a little, I sit by the window and look out over the skyline. I tell myself it's beautiful. And it is. There's a kind of majesty to it--the lights stretching for miles, the pulse of energy, the heartbeat of a city that never stops. But the view doesn't comfort me. It feels distant, like something I'm supposed to admire but can't connect with.

What I miss is simpler. I miss walking through familiar streets where everything felt grounded. I miss the trails Matt and I used to ride, the quiet places we'd go to just be. I miss the way his smile used to catch me off guard, how effortlessly he made me feel like I belonged, like I was enough just by being myself. I miss the way he made the smallest moments feel important--the way he'd let me take the lead on things when I was uncertain and gently steer me when I needed it. That balance. That safety.

I pull up the old photos from Seattle sometimes--Matt and I at Lake Union, laughing over something ridiculous, our bikes parked nearby. I'd forgotten how easy we made things look. How much simpler everything felt. And now, looking at those pictures, I can't help but wonder: What if I stayed? What if I had taken the time to see what we had instead of running toward something that felt like an idea, a version of success that wasn't actually mine?

I've told myself over and over that I made the right choice. That this career, this life in New York, is everything I wanted. But the truth is, I feel like I've been running on autopilot. Work has been good, even great. But there's this nagging emptiness, a question I haven't asked until now: Was it worth it?

I wonder if Matt ever wonders about me. If he's moved on. If he found someone else who could be the balance he needed, someone who would stand beside him as he built his future. The thought stings more than I thought it would. I can't deny it--I left him behind without ever looking back, never once asking him if he would have wanted me to stay. I was too focused on my own climb, my own vision of success.

And now, here I am. Success in a glossy New York package. But the shine is starting to wear off, and what's left underneath feels unfamiliar. I thought chasing my dreams would fill the space, but instead, I feel like I've lost something real, something that mattered more than any accolade.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all this yet. But I know one thing: I can't keep pretending this was the right decision when it doesn't feel right at all. Maybe it's time to stop running. Maybe it's time to see if there's a way back to what I walked away from.

---

It was a slow Sunday afternoon, the kind that gave you permission to pause for once. The rain had started up again, the familiar hum of it against the window setting a rhythm I hadn't realized I missed. I'd been working all morning--sorting through logistics for the new store and reviewing expansion numbers--but my mind kept drifting. Not to the business, not to the project in front of me, but to Ava. To the way she had come into my life so naturally, without fanfare, and yet had made me feel like everything was just... easier.

A knock on the door broke my thoughts, and when I opened it, there she was, standing on the other side with her jacket half-off and a warm smile.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation, like she belonged here--like she had always belonged here. I hadn't realized how much I'd been waiting for her until that moment.

"You're not interrupting," I replied, stepping aside. "I was just wrapping up some work. Come in."

She smiled again, the kind of smile that made everything feel lighter. She dropped her bag on the couch and then made her way over to the kitchen, pulling out a couple of coffee mugs. "I brought some pastries," she said, holding up a small bag from the bakery down the street. "Thought you might need a break."

"Sounds perfect," I said, smiling. We moved around each other in the kitchen without words for a moment, comfortable in the silence. I liked that about her. It wasn't awkward, the way it might be with someone you were still figuring out. With Ava, it just felt natural.

After I set the coffee down on the table, I leaned back in my chair and glanced at her. There was something different today. Something in the way she was looking at me--like she knew there was more I wasn't saying.

"So," she began, breaking the quiet, her voice gentle, "how's everything with OEO? The expansion, the stores?"

I ran a hand through my hair, unsure of where to begin. "It's going well. We've got a couple of new locations in the works. Business is steady. But..." I trailed off, unsure of how to finish the thought. The truth had been sitting uncomfortably in my chest, pressing harder each day. I had built something so big, so successful, but I still didn't feel like I'd found what I was looking for.

Ava's gaze softened, and she waited, not rushing me to fill the silence. She wasn't trying to push me for answers, but I felt the weight of my own reluctance.

"It's just... I've been thinking about why I've been pushing so hard. About what I've been running toward," I said finally, my voice quieter than I expected. "I don't think it's just the business. I think I've been trying to fill something. A hole I didn't realize I had."

Ava nodded, her eyes understanding. "And what's that hole, Matt?"

I leaned forward, folding my hands together. "I think it's about connection," I said, the words coming out in a rush now. "I spent so much time building something that I thought would fill the space. But it didn't. I wasn't building for the right reasons. I was building for the wrong version of myself."

There was a long pause, and then Ava said, softly, "You don't always have to have it figured out. You don't have to be perfect."

"I know," I replied, my gaze meeting hers. "But I think I've been avoiding being real with myself. With the people who matter."

Ava reached out, her hand brushing mine across the table. It wasn't a grand gesture, just the kind of touch that meant something in its simplicity. Her eyes met mine again, and there was something in the air between us--something tender, something that felt like the beginning of a different kind of future.

"I think you've been doing a lot of the right things, Matt," she said quietly. "But maybe it's time to slow down. To take a breath and figure out what you want, not just what you think you should want."

Her words landed in a way that felt comforting. Like I was finally allowed to stop running, allowed to be something more than the businessman or the man who was always chasing. I didn't have to have it all figured out, but maybe the next step wasn't about achievement--it was about being present. About being real with myself, with the people who mattered.

"I think I'm ready to start doing that," I said softly, my voice steady for the first time in months.

Ava smiled at me, her hand still resting lightly on mine. There was no rush, no pressure--just the quiet understanding that we were both figuring it out, together. And maybe that was enough for now.

-----------

Ava:

The first time I noticed it, I was sitting across from Matt at a small outdoor café. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the city, and we were sharing a late lunch after a morning ride. We'd done this before--these easy, relaxed hangouts that were comfortable and familiar, but this time felt different. There was a shift in the way we talked, the way our gazes lingered a little longer than they had in the past. The quiet moments between words were starting to feel like something more.

I noticed the way his eyes would occasionally find mine, the way he'd smile when he caught me looking at him. It wasn't a flash of attraction, not exactly, but something deeper--a mutual understanding, a connection we'd been slowly building without either of us really acknowledging it. I could feel it in the way we'd laugh at the same jokes, finish each other's sentences, how he'd lean in a little closer when we spoke. It was more than just friendship. And, for the first time, I allowed myself to think that maybe it was something that could turn into more.

That night, after dinner, we walked through the park near the waterfront. The city lights reflected off the water, and the cool breeze cut through the warmth of the day. I hadn't planned to bring it up, but something about the moment, something about how easy it felt to be near him, made it impossible not to say it out loud.

"Matt," I said, my voice a little quieter than usual. He turned toward me, pausing as I said his name. "Do you ever wonder if we're just... settling into this because it's comfortable?"

He didn't answer right away, and for a moment, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. But then he smiled--soft and understanding--and his response wasn't what I expected.

"I think sometimes we get caught up in what we're building that we forget to ask why we're building it," he said, his voice low but steady. "I don't want to settle, Ava. I want it to mean something."

I felt my heart race a little, not from nerves, but from the realization that I had been thinking the same thing for a while. There had been moments when I'd caught myself looking at him, not just as a friend, but as something more. And now, in the quiet of the evening, standing under the soft glow of the streetlights, it felt like the universe was giving me permission to admit that.

"You're right," I said softly, stepping a little closer to him. "I think I've been afraid of what it means to let myself be real with you. To admit that maybe I'm starting to feel something more."

There was a long pause. And for the first time, I saw a flicker of something different in his eyes--something that mirrored my own uncertainty. But then, he took a step closer, closing the gap between us, and I realized in that moment that it wasn't just fear holding me back. It was the fear of not being brave enough to let myself feel what I was already feeling.

"I think I've been afraid of it too," Matt said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm starting to think that maybe this... whatever this is, it's worth the risk."

Without another word, he reached out, his hand finding mine. And when our fingers touched, the world around us seemed to disappear. It wasn't just a moment of comfort. It was the beginning of something new, something neither of us had expected, but something we were both willing to embrace.

We walked back in silence, our fingers intertwined, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel the weight of the city pressing down on me. I didn't feel the emptiness I had carried with me since moving here. I felt lighter, freer, like I had finally found something that wasn't just about what I wanted, but about who I wanted it with.

---

The next morning, everything felt different. The air in the city, the quiet mornings I had gotten used to, now felt full of possibilities. And as I looked over at Matt, still asleep next to me, I realized that I wasn't just living for the future I had been chasing. I was living for the now, for what I had right in front of me. And for the first time, it didn't feel like I was running anymore.

_________________

Lena -

Matt:

It had been a month since I'd admitted the truth to myself--since Ava and I had crossed that line from friendship into something more. And every day since, I had tried to keep my emotions in check, to remind myself that this was new, that we were still figuring it out. But every time I looked at her, something inside me shifted, and I realized I was no longer just passing time with someone. I was living a life I hadn't even realized I wanted.

We'd been spending more time together, more than I'd thought I would, even though I knew it meant that I was opening myself up in ways I hadn't planned. Ava was easy to be with. Her energy was natural, unpretentious, and she saw me in a way I hadn't been seen in a long time. She didn't expect me to be perfect. She didn't need me to be anything I wasn't. She made me feel like I could breathe, like I could make mistakes and still be enough.

Tonight, she was coming over for dinner. It was a simple thing--nothing fancy, just a quiet evening at home--but I felt the excitement in my chest like it was the first date all over again. I'd spent the afternoon cooking, hoping it would turn out as well as I envisioned. And as the doorbell rang, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous. This wasn't a casual hangout anymore. This was something more, something that meant something.

"Hey," Ava said, smiling as I opened the door, the familiar comfort of her presence making the tension in my shoulders ease.

"Hey, come in," I said, stepping aside to let her in. As she walked past me, I caught the faintest hint of lavender in the air, the smell that I'd come to associate with her. It was small, but it was becoming a part of my world.

We made small talk as I finished setting the table, but there was an ease between us now. A comfort. The awkwardness of those first few dates, the uncertainty of what we were becoming, had long faded. We didn't need to say much; the silence was comfortable, even with the soft clink of dishes and silverware. It felt like we had created our own rhythm, one that no longer needed explanation.

Dinner went smoothly. We talked about everything and nothing--her latest urban planning project, my frustration with the latest round of OEO expansion, and random musings on the strangest things that we'd encountered in the city. But when we were finished, when the plates were cleared and the evening stretched into a quiet, peaceful space, she took a deep breath and looked at me in a way that made my heart stutter.

"I've been thinking," she began, her voice quieter than usual, a small hesitation in her words. "About what we're doing. About us."

My stomach dropped slightly. It wasn't fear, but the anticipation of what might be coming next. There was a part of me that had been waiting for this conversation, and the other part of me that had been avoiding it. I knew it was inevitable.

"What about us?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though I could feel the vulnerability creeping in. This wasn't the same as the easy laughter and playful teasing we had shared before. This felt more real.

Ava took a moment before she responded, her eyes meeting mine with a quiet intensity. "I don't want to rush anything, Matt. But I think I'm starting to realize that I've been letting the wrong things guide me for too long. Maybe I've been chasing the wrong goals." She paused, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass absentmindedly. "And I want more than just a career, more than just projects or accolades. I want something that feels real. With someone who makes me feel like I'm enough."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and my heart thudded harder. It was the same feeling I had when I was trying to figure out what I truly wanted, what I'd been building for, but hadn't had the courage to admit until now. Something inside me shifted. I wasn't sure how to put it all into words, but I knew that I felt the same way. Ava was more than just someone I spent time with. She had become part of the rhythm of my life in ways I hadn't expected.

I reached out, gently taking her hand in mine, feeling the warmth of her touch grounding me in the moment. "I don't want to rush it either," I said, my voice quieter now, holding onto every word. "But I know that I don't want to let this go, Ava. Whatever this is between us... it feels real. And I want to see where it takes us."

Her smile was small, but it was enough to make everything feel a little brighter. "Yeah," she said softly, squeezing my hand. "Me too."

-----------

Matt:

It felt like the natural next step.

Our relationship with each other had grown, gradually becoming more than I ever expected. Ava and I had spent more time together, slipping into a rhythm that felt like we had known each other longer than we actually had. It was the little things--the way she'd share a cup of coffee with me in the mornings, the way she'd lean against the kitchen counter after a long day, telling me about her latest project. It wasn't just about love; it was about companionship. We had built a quiet trust, and I felt like I could be myself with her in ways I hadn't felt in a long time.

It was also easy to laugh. There was an ease to being with her, like we were both finally letting go of the parts of ourselves that had been tightly wound, afraid to show vulnerability. It wasn't always perfect, but it was real. And somewhere along the way, I found myself imagining a future that didn't just include the business, or the endless hustle of expansion. A future that included her.

We had talked about everything--our pasts, our ambitions, what we wanted for our futures--but there were still things unsaid. As I spent more time with her, it became clear that I didn't want to be anywhere else. The thought of her being a part of my life wasn't a question anymore. It just felt right.

That was why I wasn't expecting what came next.

It was a Saturday evening, the kind of quiet night where the city outside was buzzing with energy, but inside, everything felt calm. Ava was sitting across from me at the table, stirring her wine absently, her eyes a little distracted. I watched her for a moment, noting the way she was biting her lip, something on her mind. I couldn't help but feel that familiar urge to ask, to check in.

"You okay?" I asked, setting my glass down. "You've been a little quiet tonight."

She met my gaze, her eyes flicking to mine before she took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm okay," she said slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. "It's just... there's something I need to tell you."

My heart skipped a beat. Her tone was different now. Serious. "What's going on?"

She set her glass down, her eyes now focused on the table as she folded her hands together. She wasn't avoiding my gaze, but there was something in the way she held herself that made me sit up straighter, a knot forming in my stomach.

"I took a test this morning," she said quietly, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "And it came back positive."

For a moment, I just stared at her, processing her words, trying to make sense of what she was saying. My mind raced, but everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The room seemed to close in around me, and I couldn't figure out how to respond.

"Positive?" I repeated, my voice sounding distant even to myself. "Positive for what?"

Ava took another deep breath, and I could see the vulnerability in her eyes--the uncertainty of what she was about to say. "Matt, I'm pregnant."

My heart stopped. I wasn't sure what I expected to feel, but I certainly hadn't expected this. The room seemed to tilt around me, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a thick fog.

I sat back, trying to process. Pregnant. We were going to have a baby?

I looked at Ava, who was watching me carefully, her expression unreadable. Her fingers nervously twisted the napkin on the table, as if trying to hold on to something in that moment. She wasn't asking for a reaction--she wasn't demanding anything. She was just telling me the truth, hoping I could take it as it was.

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. There were too many questions. Too many emotions tangled together. The fear, the excitement, the uncertainty.

"I didn't want to keep this from you," she said softly, her voice tight. "But I didn't know how to bring it up. I wasn't sure if you'd be ready for this. Or if I was ready for this."

The air between us felt heavy, and I realized just how much we hadn't talked about, how much we hadn't really planned for. But as I looked at her, sitting across from me, her vulnerability laid bare, something inside me clicked into place. This wasn't just a complication. This wasn't just a situation to fix. This was real. And this was happening.

I didn't have all the answers. But I knew that whatever this was, I wasn't going to face it alone.

"Are you okay?" I finally managed to say, my voice thick with something I couldn't name. "Are you sure about this?"

Ava's eyes softened as she nodded slowly. "I don't know what comes next. But I want to figure it out. With you."

I reached across the table, taking her hand gently in mine. It wasn't the kind of moment I had imagined, not by any stretch. But in that moment, as I held her hand, I knew that no matter how unexpected this was, it was something I couldn't walk away from. And for the first time in a while, I felt the weight of responsibility--not just for myself, but for something more. Something that was starting to feel like a future I never thought I would have.

And in that moment, I realized that I didn't need to have everything figured out right away. What mattered was that we were in this together.

-----------

Erin:

I hadn't meant to check my email this morning, but there I was--opening an old thread from the team in Seattle. The subject line caught my eye: OEO's New Expansion. A year ago, I would've been all over it, eager to dive into the details, to be part of the excitement and the growth. I clicked on the message without thinking.

The pictures in the email--new store openings, team photos, Matt smiling at the ribbon-cutting--hit me harder than I thought they would. The people I once worked with, the places I had known so well, the small moments that had once made me feel grounded. It all felt so far away. The space I had carved out here in New York felt... smaller, somehow, less full. I had traded the known for the unknown, and for what? For a job that kept me moving at a pace I couldn't sustain, for success I wasn't sure was really mine.

I leaned back in my chair, staring out the window at the sprawling skyline. The city was alive, buzzing with energy, a place where anything could happen. But even here, in the heart of everything I thought I wanted, there was a hollowness inside me that had started to grow.

I remembered the last time I saw Matt--standing there, looking at me like he had something to say, but I was already gone. I hadn't even thought to ask if he wanted me to stay. I just assumed my path was the right one. I had convinced myself that leaving, that chasing this dream, was what I needed to do. But now? Now I wasn't so sure.

A year and a half had passed since I left. A year and a half of constant motion, of pushing forward, of achieving everything I thought I wanted. But none of it had filled the space I thought it would. Success was a hollow echo when there was no one to share it with, no one who really understood what it cost to get here.

I had been so focused on the future that I didn't notice what I was leaving behind--what I had already lost. It wasn't just the life I had with Matt. It was the simple, everyday connection to something that made sense. To a home. To a person who had made me feel like I could stop running, even for just a moment.

I stood up, pacing the small space of my apartment, the hum of the city outside now a background noise I couldn't ignore. My phone buzzed with another message--this one from Derek. Great work on the campaign. Ready for the next big project? I glanced at it and set the phone back down. More work. More distractions. More of the same. And as I stared at the screen, I realized I had spent so much time chasing this version of success that I'd forgotten what it was really for. I had left everything behind, but I wasn't sure I had made the right choice.

The quiet moments--the ones I never allowed myself to have--began to fill in the gaps. I remembered Matt's laugh, the way we could talk for hours about nothing and everything. I remembered the way he would look at me like I mattered. Not for what I could do, not for the promotions or the success, but for just being me.

I missed that. I missed him.

And I hated myself for not seeing it sooner.

-----------

Matt:

The room was filled with the soft sound of breathing, the rhythmic beeping of machines, and the quiet shuffle of nurses moving in and out. But all I could hear, all I could feel, was the warmth of Ava's hand in mine and the soft cry of our daughter--the sound that suddenly made everything else fall away.

She was small. Fragile. Perfect. Her tiny fingers curled around my larger hand, as if she already knew who I was, who I would be for her. Ava was propped up in the bed, exhausted but glowing, her eyes bright with the kind of love I hadn't known was possible until I saw our little girl in her arms.

I leaned in closer, brushing a lock of hair away from Ava's forehead, kissing it softly. She smiled, the exhaustion melting away as she looked down at our daughter. "She's beautiful," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"She's everything," I replied, my voice catching in my throat. I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince--Ava, or myself--but it felt true. This little girl, this tiny person, had already changed everything. She was ours. A part of us. And in that moment, I realized she was more than just the beginning of a new chapter. She was the turning point I didn't even know I needed.

I reached over to gently touch the back of our daughter's hand, her tiny fingers curling around mine instinctively. My heart swelled with an emotion I couldn't name, one that felt too big for words. But then I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath, "You saved me."

Ava glanced up at me, her eyes soft with understanding. "She saved us both," she said, squeezing my hand.

In that moment, everything shifted. All the years of uncertainty, of running from the parts of myself I hadn't been ready to face, all the questions that had clouded my mind--they faded. There was no more need to search for meaning in the expansion of OEO or in chasing success for the sake of success. There was meaning now, in this small, fragile life we had created. In the love we shared. In the way our daughter's cry filled the room with a new kind of hope.

I kissed Ava's forehead again, then turned back to our daughter, marveling at the miracle we had created together.

"You saved me," I whispered again, not just to her, but to myself. I knew now that this--this family, this new life--was what I had been searching for all along. And everything that came before this, all the noise and all the questions, no longer mattered.

Because in this room, with Ava and our daughter, I was home.

_________________

Misfire -

Erin:

I thought I had everything under control.

The campaign had been my baby--the pitch, the strategy, the vision behind it. I had poured every ounce of my creativity into it, convinced that this would be the project that solidified my place here in New York. I'd worked late nights, skipped weekends, sacrificed parts of myself I didn't even realize were important. This was the moment that was supposed to prove I belonged. I had it all figured out. Until it all fell apart.

When the feedback came in--crisp, cold, and blunt--it hit me harder than I expected. The concept didn't land. The visuals were off. The message was muddled. It wasn't just that the pitch had failed; it was the certainty that I had missed something--something so obvious that I couldn't even see it until the words were staring me in the face. There were no answers in the feedback, just suggestions that felt more like afterthoughts. The agency was already looking ahead to the next project. And I? I was stuck in the middle of a mess I couldn't clean up.

I sat in my office long after the meeting had ended, my phone buzzing on the desk, emails piling up, but none of it mattered. The campaign I had poured myself into--my best work, I thought--had failed. And the worst part was, I couldn't even look at my colleagues without feeling like they could see it too. I couldn't shake the feeling that they knew, just like I did, that I had let them down. I was too proud to admit it out loud, but inside, I was falling apart.

It didn't take long for Derek to send me the message: We'll have to revisit the approach, Erin. Let's talk about how we fix this. I didn't respond right away. I couldn't. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing felt right. I was stuck, and for the first time since I had come to New York, I wasn't sure who I was anymore. The ambitious, determined version of myself was fading, replaced by someone who had missed the mark. I hated the feeling, the gnawing sensation that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make this work.

By the time I left the office, the city felt even more overwhelming. The lights on the street blurred together in a haze, the noise a constant hum in my ears, but it was all distant. I didn't want to go back to the apartment. I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. I wanted to disappear for a while--away from the pressure, the expectations, the sense of failure that seemed to cling to me. I didn't know what I was running from, but I knew I couldn't stay in this place for too long. I needed to feel something else. Anything else.

_________________

Diagnosis -

Ava:

Three years had passed since Lena was born, and in that time, life had settled into a rhythm that felt comfortable. I'd gotten used to being a mother and a partner. The balance wasn't perfect--nothing in life ever was--but it was ours. Matt and I had found a new routine, a shared understanding of how to navigate the busy chaos that came with parenthood. And the love we had for Lena--it was a different kind of love than I had ever imagined. It was everything.

But lately, something was off. I couldn't ignore it anymore. My right hand had started shaking--just a little at first, nothing anyone else would notice. I'd chalked it up to stress, to lack of sleep, to everything I was juggling in my life. But the tremor hadn't gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse. My hand would tremble when I reached for my coffee in the mornings, when I tried to open a jar. It wasn't enough to keep me from functioning, but it was becoming more frequent, and I started to wonder if something deeper was going on.

At first, I tried to push it aside. Maybe it was just exhaustion from work, or the residual effects of pregnancy and postpartum that never quite seemed to go away. But as the weeks passed, the symptoms started to spread. My fingers felt stiff, like they weren't listening to my brain. I'd find myself fumbling with simple tasks, things I never thought twice about--typing emails, writing notes, even holding a pen. I was frustrated. I was scared. But I kept telling myself it was temporary. That I just needed rest. That it would get better.

Matt noticed, of course. He wasn't one to say much, but the worry in his eyes was enough to make me feel even more afraid. He asked me once, when I was struggling to button up my jacket, if I was okay. He didn't press, but I saw the concern there. The way he hovered just a little longer than usual. And I hated that. I hated seeing him worry when I didn't even know what was happening to me.

So I did what I always did. I kept going. I buried the fear beneath the surface and tried to ignore the signs, hoping they would fade. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just stress or fatigue. Something was happening, and I didn't know what it was--or why. The ache in my hand was now accompanied by the feeling of tightness in my legs, the kind that made it hard to move without thinking about it. And it wasn't just physical. There was something mentally taxing about all of it--the constant wondering, the waiting for something to change. Waiting for a reason.

---

The first time I noticed the weakness, I brushed it off. I'd been pushing myself too hard, I thought--late nights at work, early mornings with Lena, the stress of balancing everything that felt out of my control. But then it started happening more often. My right hand trembled just a little when I picked up Lena, when I tried to hold her bottle. It wasn't noticeable to anyone else, but it was to me. I felt it every time I held a glass, every time I typed an email.

The tremors worsened. Not violently, not in a way that alarmed me at first, but in small, frustrating increments. My fingers would stiffen in the middle of a sentence or when I tried to button up my coat. When I went to tie my shoes, my hands would falter. At first, I thought I was just tired--too much on my plate, not enough rest. But it didn't feel like just exhaustion. It felt like something was slipping away, like I wasn't in control of my own body anymore.

One evening, after Lena had gone to bed, I sat down to fold the laundry. The shirt I was holding wouldn't cooperate. It slipped from my hands. I tried to pick it up, but my fingers didn't respond the way they used to. I gripped at the fabric, frustrated, willing my hands to do what I wanted them to do. But nothing happened. A cold rush of panic settled in my chest as I stood up, my heart racing. I couldn't make sense of it. I felt weak, something that seemed so out of place. I brushed it off, told myself I was overreacting, that I was tired, that I just needed sleep.

But then the feeling spread.

It was like a dull ache that started in my fingers and slowly crept up my arm. My wrist started to feel stiff, almost like I couldn't move it fully. I tried to work through it, pushing through the discomfort, telling myself it would pass. But it didn't. It was there when I went to bed, there when I woke up, always just underneath the surface, reminding me that something was wrong. I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just stress. This wasn't just overuse or fatigue. This was something deeper.

I started having trouble with my legs too. They didn't feel as strong. It was subtle at first. I thought I had pulled a muscle or maybe slept wrong. But the more I tried to ignore it, the worse it got. It was hard to keep up with Lena at the park. I'd find myself out of breath after just a few steps, my legs feeling heavy, sluggish, as if they weren't obeying my commands. I'd smile through it, tell myself I was just getting older, but the truth was harder to deny. Something was happening inside of me, and I couldn't put a name to it.

I didn't tell Matt. He noticed my limp, noticed how I was holding my arm, but he didn't push. He'd ask if I was okay, but his questions were casual, concerned, but not probing. Maybe I didn't want him to know the truth. Maybe I didn't want to admit to myself that there was something wrong, something that could change everything.

One night, as we sat down for dinner, I tried to pick up my fork, and the tremor in my hand was more pronounced. It was subtle, but Matt noticed. His eyes flicked to my hand, and I saw the concern flash across his face, but he didn't say anything. I smiled tightly, trying to laugh it off. "Just tired," I said, my voice a little too high-pitched. He didn't buy it. But he didn't press.

That's when I knew. I couldn't hide it anymore. There was something happening to me, something I couldn't explain away, something I couldn't ignore. But I didn't know what to do with it. The fear was creeping in slowly, gnawing at the edges of everything I tried to hold together. I needed to know what was wrong, but I was terrified to face it.

The next day, I made an appointment with the doctor. I didn't tell Matt. I wasn't ready to say it out loud, not yet. I didn't want to make it real. But the truth was becoming undeniable. My body was betraying me, and I had no idea why.

---

I had never been afraid of doctors. But when I sat in the sterile waiting room, the tension in my chest felt like something I couldn't breathe through. I told myself I was overreacting--that it was probably nothing--but the longer I sat there, the heavier the reality settled.

When the nurse finally called my name, I stood up too quickly, almost knocking my knee against the edge of the chair. I smiled awkwardly at the receptionist, trying to ignore the way my legs felt weak, the way my hand still trembled slightly when I gripped my purse.

The doctor was kind, asking questions about my symptoms and writing things down as I spoke. I tried to keep it together as I explained the tremors in my hands, the weakness in my legs, the tightness that had started creeping into my muscles. I didn't want to sound like I was catastrophizing. I didn't want to seem like I was just tired or stressed or overworked, but I couldn't ignore it anymore. Something wasn't right.

"Let's run a few tests," she said after listening carefully, her brow furrowing as she checked my reflexes and moved through the physical exam. There was no immediate concern on her face, but I could see the way she was processing everything, the way she took extra care with every movement. She was trying to be kind, trying to mask the seriousness of what she was hearing.

I left the clinic with orders for blood tests, a referral to a neurologist, and a sense of dread that I hadn't fully allowed myself to feel until now. I drove home in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space where my thoughts should have been. But the silence in my head had been replaced by a sharp edge of worry, an uncertainty that I couldn't shake.

When I got back to the apartment, Matt was on the phone in the living room. I stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. I hadn't told him yet. I hadn't even told myself what this was. How could I tell him something I wasn't sure of myself?

When he saw me, he ended the call quickly and stood up, walking over to me. "Everything okay?" His eyes were searching, still concerned from the subtle way I'd been moving these past weeks. I nodded, but it was a lie, and I knew it. "Just a check-up," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

But I saw the hesitation in his eyes. He didn't buy it. "Ava..."

I looked down, trying to find the right words. But they didn't come. Not yet.

The call came later that night, while we were eating dinner. It was the neurologist's office. The test results had come in, and the words that followed hit me like a punch to the stomach: ALS. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. I had to sit down right where I was. I don't even remember putting the phone down when the call ended. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. My hands started to tremble harder than they ever had before, and I gripped the edge of the table just to steady myself.

When Matt came over, he sat down next to me, his face filled with concern, his hand reaching for mine instinctively. But I couldn't look at him. I didn't know how to say the words, but I knew that look in his eyes--that mixture of confusion and fear--and I felt it in my chest, the weight of everything I couldn't hide anymore.

"I don't know what to do," I whispered, my voice cracking. "It's ALS, Matt. It's--"

I didn't finish the sentence. There was no need. The silence between us grew deeper, and in that moment, I realized I wasn't just facing a diagnosis. I was facing everything I had been avoiding--the fear of what this would mean for me, for us, for the life we had been building. I had spent so long running from my own fears, pretending it was nothing, that I hadn't considered how deeply it would affect everything.

I could feel Matt's hand tighten around mine, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand in a gesture that was supposed to be comforting. But nothing felt comforting right now. Nothing felt real.

---

We didn't speak for a while.

The dinner we had started to eat was left untouched, the plates sitting cold between us. My hand was still in Matt's, but the warmth of it didn't reach the pit in my stomach. I couldn't stop thinking about the words--the diagnosis--that had just changed everything. ALS. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. It was a disease I had heard of, of course. But hearing it applied to me was like hearing it in a foreign language I didn't understand. My mind kept racing, trying to make sense of it, trying to force the information into some neat little box where I could contain it and process it later. But there was no neat box. No compartment for this.

Matt didn't pull his hand away. He didn't let go. And that was somehow comforting--like he wasn't ready to leave, even if the world around us had shifted in ways neither of us could control.

The silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. There was no need for words, not yet. I wasn't sure what I could say. What could I say? How do you explain to the person you love that your life is no longer your own? That the clock is ticking, and you don't know how much time you have left?

Matt eventually broke the silence, his voice low, careful, like he was afraid his words might break something delicate.

"Ava..." He squeezed my hand a little tighter, pulling me out of my thoughts. "I'm here. We're going to figure this out. You're not alone in this."

His words, simple as they were, felt like a lifeline. I knew he meant them. I knew he would stand beside me no matter what came next. But I couldn't help the wave of guilt that washed over me. How much would this take from him? From us? I had already felt like I had been slipping away--bit by bit, day by day--but now this? It was all too much. And I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared of how much I'd change, scared of what I would lose. I had always been the strong one. But now... I didn't know if I was strong enough for this.

"I don't want you to have to go through this with me," I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I don't want you to watch me... change. To watch me fade."

Matt's grip tightened around my hand, pulling me closer, and I felt his presence fill the space between us. "Ava," he said softly, his voice filled with something I couldn't name--maybe fear, maybe determination. "You're not fading. Not for me. Not ever."

I wanted to believe him. I really did. But the fear inside me was so loud. I closed my eyes, trying to hold it together, trying not to let the tears I had been holding back for so long escape. But one slipped, and then another, and before I knew it, I was crying--soft, shaky sobs that shook my body. It was like a dam had broken inside me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Matt didn't say anything. He just held me, his arms around me, his warmth steady and unwavering as I cried into his chest. I hadn't let myself feel this vulnerable in a long time. I had kept everything locked inside, convinced that if I ignored it long enough, it would go away. But now, I was facing it. The truth. The unknown future. And it hurt. It hurt in ways I couldn't put into words.

"I don't know what's going to happen," I whispered against his shirt, my voice hoarse. "But I don't want to do this alone."

"You don't have to," Matt said, his voice gentle but firm. "You won't be. I'm here. Every step of the way."

I didn't know what the future held. I didn't know how much time I had left or what kind of changes were coming. But as I sat there in Matt's arms, the weight of his words settling over me, I realized one thing for sure: whatever happened next, we were going to face it together.

And for the first time in hours, I let myself believe that maybe that was enough.

-----------

Matt:

The days after Ava's diagnosis felt like they moved through me in a haze. Each morning, I woke up with the same weight pressing down on my chest, like the world had shifted under me and I couldn't find solid ground. But I kept going. I had to. The store didn't stop because my world was crumbling. OEO was thriving, and Rebecca had taken over more of the day-to-day operations so I could focus on what I could control, which, at that moment, was very little.

Rebecca knew, of course. She was the first person I told. She had been with me through the rise of OEO, through all the late-night decisions, the opening of new stores, the endless expansion. But this? This was different. It wasn't just another business move, another hire or storefront opening. It was Ava. The woman I had grown to depend on in ways I hadn't expected. The woman who had become part of my world without me even realizing how much she had anchored me. And now she was facing something I couldn't fix.

I didn't tell anyone else. I couldn't. I couldn't bear the thought of talking about it in public, of letting anyone else see the cracks in my armor. So I did what I did best--I worked. I stayed busy, buried myself in spreadsheets and meetings, focusing on every detail of the business until my mind couldn't hold the fear of what Ava was going through. It was easier that way. Easier to push it down.

Rebecca was the only one who saw the toll it was taking on me. She didn't ask questions, didn't try to pull things out of me. But I knew she was watching, waiting for me to break. And some nights, when we were at the store late, just the two of us, she'd catch my eye and say, "You don't have to do this alone, Matt."

I would nod, but that was all. The words never came. Not because I didn't want to share, but because the words couldn't encompass everything I felt. I couldn't put it into words. How do you tell someone that the woman you love is slowly fading, and you can't do a damn thing to stop it?

I remember one night, standing in the back of the store, staring at the inventory for the next expansion while Rebecca was making phone calls. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was late--too late to be making business calls--and when I turned around, Rebecca was standing there, her expression knowing.

"You should go home," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "You don't have to be here. You've been pushing too hard. I'm fine. The team is fine."

I opened my mouth to argue, to say I had to be here, that I needed to keep moving, but the words died in my throat. I didn't say anything. Instead, I nodded, grabbed my jacket, and left.

I went home. But not to sleep. I went home to be alone with the weight of everything I was carrying, everything I hadn't shared with anyone. Ava's diagnosis was always on my mind. It never left me. And as I sat there on the couch, I finally let myself admit the truth: I was scared. I was terrified. I couldn't lose her. I wasn't ready for that. And yet, here I was--watching it happen in slow motion, unable to stop it.

But I didn't tell the world. I couldn't. So I kept it inside, kept the emotions locked in a box, and pretended like everything was fine. And in the silence of the apartment, I endured.

_________________

Unspoken Words -

Ava:

The days were growing shorter, and the weight of what was happening to me seemed to press heavier on my body each morning. I woke up with stiffness in my hands, my legs slower than usual, my breath more labored. The doctors had told me what to expect--what stages to anticipate--but I hadn't truly processed it until now. The tremors in my hands had spread to my arms, my legs. I struggled to get out of bed in the mornings, and the simplest tasks were becoming harder.

But I wasn't ready to let it go. Not yet.

I had promised Matt that I'd try to keep up the façade, to keep everything as normal as possible. I wasn't sure if I was doing it for him, for myself, or for Lena. But there were moments when I felt it--like a shadow creeping up behind me, and I couldn't ignore it. I wasn't going to be here forever. But I didn't want my daughter to remember me by the loss. I wanted her to remember the good times, the way we had shared our love for the outdoors, the rides we'd taken as a family. Those were the memories I hoped would stay with her.

So, one evening, after dinner, I pulled out a notebook I had kept for months--the one that had sat beside my bed, forgotten for days. I opened it to a fresh page and began to write.

-----------------------------

To my sweet Lena,

I hope when you read this, you'll be old enough to understand how much I loved you, how much I still do. Every day I've spent with you has been a gift. I remember the way you laughed when we went on your first bike ride, how your eyes lit up as you learned to ride without training wheels. You taught me so much about joy, about living in the moment.

There will be things I won't be able to teach you. There will be moments you'll miss, and I'm sorry for that. But I want you to know that every second with you, every hug, every laugh, every trip to the park--those are the things that matter most. I hope you carry that with you, always. You will be brave. You will be strong. And I know you'll make the world a better place, just like you've made mine.

I love you, always.

----------------------------

The ink on the page blurred slightly as my hands shook, but I kept writing. I wasn't ready to leave this behind, not without saying everything I needed to say.

Next, I wrote a letter to Matt:

-----------------------------

Matt,

I don't know how to put this, but here it is anyway--this is my love letter to you, the one I never thought I'd have to write. I've always believed that love is something you can feel without words, but now I know that sometimes you need the words to remind you of the truth. You are my truth.

I think I've always known, deep down, that I wasn't going to have the time I wanted with you. But I made every minute count. I've loved every moment with you. You have shown me a life I never knew I needed, one full of adventure, of warmth, and of laughter. And through it all, you've been the constant. You've been my home, my safe place. When I look back on everything, it's the small moments--the quiet mornings with you, the bike rides, the way you held my hand during tough times--that I will hold in my heart.

I don't know what's coming next, and I don't know if I'll be able to tell you everything I want to say in person, but please know this: I will always love you. And you've saved me in ways I don't even have the words for. Thank you for being mine.

Forever, Ava.

---------------------------

The letters were my final gift to them. They were words I might never be able to speak aloud, but I needed them to know. Needed them to have a piece of me, something to hold onto when I was no longer able to do so myself.

The next morning, I insisted we go for one last family bike ride. It was one of those moments I had been holding onto, like a memory I wanted to freeze in time. Matt was hesitant, but I could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes. He didn't argue, just helped me get my bike ready, and we set off as a family--Lena in front, with me and Matt following behind. It was a short ride, nothing too ambitious. Just the three of us, together, breathing in the cool morning air. The city skyline in the distance, the paths winding through the park, the leaves crunching under our tires.

We rode in silence for a while, just the sound of our wheels on the path and Lena's occasional giggle echoing through the trees. The sun was low, casting a golden light over everything, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt at peace.

When we stopped to take a break, Matt helped me off my bike and steadied me as I leaned against him. I looked at Lena, her face flushed with excitement, and I felt a pang in my chest. She would grow up, and I wouldn't be there to see it all. But at least I had these moments. At least I had this.

"Mom," Lena said, catching her breath, "when I'm bigger, can we ride even further?"

I smiled, wiping a tear from my cheek. "Of course, sweetie," I whispered, "we can go wherever you want. Just promise me you'll keep riding."

_________________

Nightfall -

Matt:

It was a long, quiet night.

The hospital room smelled sterile, cold. The beeping of machines was the only sound--until it wasn't. Ava's hand, the one I had been holding for hours, slipped from mine. Her breath, shallow for so long, stilled. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't. But I knew. I felt it in the way her body had relaxed, the way her skin had gone still, cold.

I had held her. We had talked for as long as she could keep her eyes open, but the words between us had become fewer over time. I whispered to her, about everything we had shared--about Lena, about our love, about the future I wished we could have had. But now the silence felt final, and the loss of it overwhelmed me.

When I looked down at Lena, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, clutching her stuffed bear tightly in her arms, I knew that this was the hardest thing I'd ever have to do. How do you explain to a child that their mother is gone? How do you make sense of it? How do you make them understand when you can barely understand it yourself?

---

The next morning, I woke up next to Lena in the hospital room. I hadn't slept at all. The day had broken through the blinds with muted light, but the world outside felt somehow darker. Lena stirred beside me, her small body curled under the blanket, still clutching her bear.

"Mommy," she said sleepily, her voice small, "is Mommy coming back soon?"

I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat, trying to find the words. "Mommy won't be coming back, sweetheart. She's gone now, but she'll always be in our hearts. And she loved you more than anything in the world."

Lena's brow furrowed, like she didn't quite understand, and I couldn't blame her. How could I explain what I wasn't ready to accept myself? How could I explain that the world she knew, the world where her mother was always there, had changed forever?

---

Later that afternoon, when we were finally back at the apartment, I didn't know how to fill the silence. I didn't know how to keep going. Lena had been unusually quiet, sitting by the window with her crayons and paper, drawing pictures of what I assumed were our family. She didn't speak much, and I didn't force it.

It was only when the rain started to fall, tapping against the window, that she spoke up.

"Daddy," she said, her voice soft, her small face serious, "Can I still ride my bike in the rain, like Mommy did?"

The question caught me off guard. I looked over at her, sitting there so small, with those wide, innocent eyes staring out at the rain. It was a question that seemed so simple. Yet, in that moment, it felt like the heaviest thing she could ask.

I knelt down beside her, my heart aching. "Yes, sweetie," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "You can ride in the rain. Just like Mommy did. She'd want you to. She loved riding in the rain with you."

Her small lips pressed together in a smile, and she went back to her drawing, the rain tapping at the window in time with her quiet heartbeat. I watched her for a moment, her innocence filling the room with a light I didn't know I needed. But I also knew that something had shifted.

I wouldn't be able to shield her from the hurt. I couldn't protect her from the truth. But I could promise her this: she would always have a piece of her mother, the love that had been so pure and strong, even when I was unsure of everything else.

And, one day, when the rain came again, I'd be right there with her, just as her mother would have been, holding her hand as we rode together.

_________________

The Email-

Erin:

I sat at my desk in my small apartment, sipping coffee that had gone cold while I scrolled through emails. It was one of those days where the endless stream of client requests and deadlines felt like a blur. New York was still fast-paced, but there were moments where the city felt like a stranger to me--like I wasn't quite sure how I'd gotten here.

I was about to close my inbox when an email caught my eye. Alumni Newsletter -- University of Washington.

I opened it without thinking much of it--just another reminder of the life I'd left behind when I made the move here. It was filled with updates on old professors, alumni events, the occasional wedding announcement. But I found myself skimming through the sections absentmindedly until one headline caught my attention:

"OEO Expands, New Clothing Line 'Cloud Burn' Launches"

I stopped scrolling, the words hanging in front of me like a signpost I hadn't seen in years. I clicked the link, heart thumping in my chest for reasons I couldn't quite place.

There it was. The article about Matt.

OEO, the rapidly growing outdoor retailer, has announced an ambitious expansion plan. With new stores opening across the West Coast, the company's sights are set on the East Coast next, alongside the launch of its new clothing line, "Cloud Burn," inspired by sustainable fabrics designed for high-performance outdoor adventurers. The brand's founder, Matt Cross, continues to lead OEO's direction with a strong vision for future growth.

I stared at the words, my mind racing. I had heard about the success of OEO. The brand had started small--just a couple of stores in Seattle--but I hadn't realized how much it had grown. Matt had built something huge. Something that made waves in the outdoor community, something that seemed to carry a legacy of its own.

But as I continued reading, my eyes stopped at the picture attached to the article. It was of Matt, standing in front of an OEO store, one hand resting casually in his pocket. But what stopped me wasn't just Matt's familiar face--it was the little girl beside him.

At first, I didn't recognize her. But then, the weight of it hit me all at once. The little girl was wearing a bright yellow jacket, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her eyes wide with curiosity. She looked so much like Matt that I could feel my breath catch in my throat. I stared at her face, unsure of what to think, until I saw the caption under the photo:

Matt Cross with his daughter, Lena, at the grand opening of OEO's newest location in Portland.

I sat there, frozen. Lena.

The name hit me like a wave I wasn't prepared for. Matt had a daughter. Matt's life had moved on. It had been four years since Ava passed, and I had done my best to stay away from everything that reminded me of Seattle, of Matt, of what we had. But seeing that photo--seeing the way Matt had built his life, with Lena by his side, smiling at the camera--something shifted inside me.

I didn't know how to feel. A mix of sadness, regret, and an overwhelming pull of something I couldn't put a name to. How had I missed this? How had I missed so much?

I closed the laptop, the room suddenly too small. My thoughts were a jumble, and I couldn't sort through them. I had kept my distance all these years, buried myself in my career, in my ambition, in the life I thought would make me whole. But the truth was, I had never stopped thinking about Matt. I had never stopped wondering what would have happened if I had stayed. If I had made the decision to be a part of his life, a part of Lena's life.

And now, I couldn't help but wonder if it was too late.

I closed my eyes, leaning back in the chair, trying to steady my breathing.

Was it too late?

-----------

Matt:

It's been four years since Ava passed.

Four years of adjusting, of moving through the motions, of creating a life for Lena and me. I never thought I'd be here--raising a child alone, trying to balance work, life, and everything in between. I never thought I'd be the father I am now. But when Ava was gone, I didn't have a choice. Lena was all I had left.

It was a late morning when I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my tie for a meeting with one of OEO's new investors. I glanced at Lena, sitting on the couch with her backpack on, still half-distracted by the cartoons playing on the TV. She had her jacket draped over the back of the chair, ready for school. She was always ready before I was, and it was a quiet reminder that life was moving forward even when I wasn't sure if I was.

"Lena, you almost ready?" I called out, straightening my jacket.

She nodded, still not looking away from the screen. "Uh-huh, Daddy."

I chuckled softly, watching her for a moment longer. She didn't look anything like the toddler I'd brought to OEO's grand openings years ago, the one in the pictures with me. She was growing up so fast, and sometimes I didn't know where the time had gone.

I finished up my tie and walked over to the kitchen, grabbing my coffee. The house had a quiet hum to it--sometimes I appreciated it, other times it felt too empty. Ava used to complain about the noise, the never-ending hum of the city, but I knew she loved the calm when we were home. Now, it was just me and Lena, and it was enough. But every once in a while, the silence became too much to ignore.

Lena ran into the kitchen, pulling her jacket on as she went. "Daddy, I'm ready! Can you sign this for school?" She handed me a permission slip.

I signed it quickly, distracted by the thought of the meeting that was looming ahead. But then I looked at her--really looked at her--and I realized just how much she had changed since Ava had passed. She was a strong kid. Brave, even. But I could see it, too. The times when she would ask about her mom, when the quiet would take over her.

"Do you want to ride with me today?" I asked, turning my attention back to her. "We've got a few extra minutes. Maybe a quick ride around the park?"

She grinned, her eyes lighting up at the mention of the bike. "Can we go in the rain? Like Mommy did?"

The question caught me off guard. I paused, wondering how to respond. I could feel the weight of the past settling in. Ava had always loved riding in the rain. There was something freeing about it, the way the world seemed to wash away when it rained, when you just rode through it.

"Yeah," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips, "we can ride in the rain. Just like Mommy did."

Lena's smile grew wider. "Yes!" She ran to the door, throwing it open, ready for her coat and helmet.

I followed her, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. The rain, the bike rides--these were the things Ava had loved, the things we'd shared. And now, they were memories I'd hold onto forever. For Lena, I had to keep the memory of her mother alive in the little things. The rainy rides. The songs they used to sing.

We walked out into the rain, our boots splashing as we made our way to the bikes. I adjusted Lena's helmet and climbed onto my own, the sound of the rain beating against the pavement mixing with the rhythmic hum of our tires on the wet roads. For a moment, everything felt like it was as it should be. The world felt like it was moving again.

But as I looked at Lena, riding ahead of me with the same determination I'd seen in her mother, I couldn't shake the thought that, no matter how much time passed, the pain of losing Ava would always be with me. It would always be there in the quiet moments, in the small reminders, in the things Lena would never fully understand.

And yet, as Lena looked back at me and waved, I realized that this--this was what kept me going. This was the future, the one I was building for her, for both of us. Even if the past still lingered in the corners of my heart, I couldn't let it stop me from moving forward.

_________________

Paper Awards -

Erin:

The award ceremony was glamorous, as they always were. The room glittered with recognition, the kind that only New York could provide. I stood at the podium, accepting another accolade for my work--another win, another title that cemented my place in the industry. It was the kind of thing I had spent years striving for. The applause, the well-meaning congratulations--it all felt like it should mean something, like it should fill the space I had created for myself.

But when the applause died down and I stood there with the award in my hand, something was missing. I felt hollow. Like I had climbed another rung of the ladder only to realize the view didn't change. I smiled, as I always did, but inside, it felt like I was just going through the motions. Another achievement. Another shiny paper to hang on the wall. But the weight of it... it didn't feel like it was mine. It felt like something I had been chasing, but never really wanted.

The cab ride back to my apartment was the hardest part of the night. I had a vague, distant sense of pride as I sat in the backseat, staring out at the blurred lights of the city. But as the taxi rumbled along the streets, I couldn't shake the feeling of being alone. The city felt vast, its noise and energy swirling around me, but I felt like I was in a bubble, disconnected from everything. The emptiness inside of me stretched, growing wider with each passing moment.

I felt the tears before I even realized they were coming. One slip, and then another, until I was shaking with the weight of it. I pressed my face into my hands, letting the sobs come, not caring about the driver or the city outside or anything else. I had everything I thought I wanted. The accolades. The success. The status. But in the quiet of the cab, all I felt was a deep sense of loss.

I pulled out my phone, the screen illuminated by the city's glow, and without thinking, I opened my email. I typed in Rebecca's name, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts, and I began to write:

--------------------------

Rebecca,

I don't know why I'm reaching out right now. I just got another award. Another acknowledgment. And yet... I don't feel like I've won anything. Everything feels empty. I've done what I set out to do, but I feel lost. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I've been pushing too hard, but the success doesn't feel like success anymore. It feels hollow, like I'm running in circles, trying to outrun something I can't even name.

I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I don't know why I can't be happy with everything I've achieved. But something is missing. And I don't know how to fix it.

I miss you, Rebecca. I miss talking about something that mattered more than just work. I don't know where I'm going with all this. But I needed to say it to someone who would understand.

-- Erin

---------------------------

I stared at the words, my emotions still raw, my heart aching in a way I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years. Without thinking, I hit send.

The cab pulled up to the building, but I stayed sitting, staring at the screen. My phone buzzed with notifications, the world still moving at its frantic pace around me. But I wasn't part of it. I didn't know where I belonged anymore.

As I stepped out of the cab, I wiped my face and straightened my shoulders. Another award. Another triumph. But somehow, it felt like the hardest victory to celebrate. And yet, there was something in the message I had just sent, a quiet admission that I couldn't keep pretending anymore.

The noise of the city felt deafening as I walked into my apartment, but for the first time, I realized I wasn't looking for more awards. I was looking for something real. Something that had been missing all along.

_________________

Flight Home -

Erin:

I thought it would feel like a weight had been lifted.

When I handed in my resignation letter, it didn't come with the relief I had imagined. I thought it would be freeing--closing a chapter of my life, a decade-long run in New York that had drained me more than it had given. But instead, it felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if I was jumping into the unknown or stepping backward into a past I hadn't quite left behind.

The next morning, I packed my things--the few items that I hadn't let myself get too attached to--and booked a one-way flight to Seattle. The decision wasn't sudden, but it was final. I didn't know what would happen once I got there. I didn't know if I would find the answers I was seeking, or if I was just running from the overwhelming weight of everything I hadn't dealt with in years.

The flight was long, a blur of restless moments and thoughts I couldn't escape. I tried to sleep, but sleep didn't come easily anymore. I kept replaying everything in my mind--the success, the accolades, the hollow feeling that came with them. I had built a career, yes. But I hadn't built a life that felt mine. Not in the way I had wanted. I wanted to belong somewhere, to feel grounded. And that had never been New York.

When the plane touched down in Seattle, everything felt... smaller. The familiar skyline was just as I remembered, the gray clouds hanging low over the water, the streets I used to walk without thinking now feeling like foreign paths I hadn't walked in years. Seattle had always felt big, expansive, full of possibility. But now, it felt tighter. Cozier. Warmer, in a way that I wasn't prepared for.

I rented a temporary apartment in Capitol Hill, small and cozy, nothing like the sleek New York apartment I had lived in. The space felt humble, with old hardwood floors and a kitchen that looked like it had been loved a little too much over the years. But it felt... like a beginning. A place to breathe. A place to pause.

I didn't know what came next. I didn't know if I would pick up the pieces of my career here, or if I would completely reinvent myself. But as I sat on the couch, staring out at the view of the Puget Sound, I realized that this was the first time in a long time that I wasn't chasing anything. The race I had been running for the last decade had finally come to a stop.

Seattle was smaller than I remembered. But it felt more like home than I had expected.

---

The days blurred together at first, as I tried to get used to the quieter pace of life. I had moved into my new apartment, unpacked my bags, and set up the essentials, but it all felt like I was living in a shell of my past self. The place was cozy--more than I needed, but enough to start over. It was funny how quickly you can get used to something small, how fast you can start to call it home. But there was an underlying restlessness, a constant hum in the back of my mind. The noise of the city had always been a part of me, and now, with the quiet, it felt like I was hearing my own thoughts for the first time in years.

I hadn't told many people I was back. Just a few family members, a few old friends I'd stayed in touch with over the years. It felt strange to reenter this space I used to know so well. The idea of reconnecting felt like a foreign language I had forgotten to speak. And even when I did see old friends, there was an awkwardness between us. Like they could see something I hadn't yet admitted. I wasn't the same person who had left. I didn't know how to explain it to them--or to myself.

I spent most of my first few weeks in Seattle just wandering. The familiar streets of Capitol Hill, the coffee shops I used to frequent, the parks where I'd spent hours reading or just walking aimlessly--they all looked the same. But nothing felt the same. The weight of my decision to leave New York and the years I had spent chasing something that wasn't fulfilling me now settled heavily on my shoulders. The empty space of the apartment felt bigger than it was, the silence in my head louder than the city outside.

And then one morning, I took a walk through Volunteer Park. It was one of my favorite places in the city--green, open, a place where I could breathe, where the city seemed to quiet itself. I wandered down the familiar path, the trees arching over me, the stillness wrapping around me like a blanket. And for the first time since I had arrived back in Seattle, I allowed myself to just feel.

I didn't have a career plan. I didn't have the sharp, defined vision I'd once had of what my future looked like. What I had was a rawness that I hadn't known I'd carried for so long. What I had was the realization that I had spent so many years doing things for the wrong reasons. I had told myself I was building something I could be proud of, but it never felt like I was building for me. It felt like I was trying to prove something. To who, I wasn't sure. But I'd lost sight of why I was doing it in the first place.

As I sat on a bench overlooking the lake, I let myself breathe deeply. The sounds of the city were still there, distant but present. And I realized something: I didn't have to figure it all out right now. I didn't have to rush. The pressure I had felt for so long to have everything figured out--to make a name for myself, to build a career that was worthy of praise--was gone. I wasn't in New York anymore, and I wasn't who I had been there. I had the space to create something new. I could be whoever I needed to be, without the weight of expectation on my shoulders.

The thought was both liberating and terrifying. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure of whether to jump or take a step back. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew that for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid to face it. I wasn't afraid of the uncertainty.

As I walked back toward my apartment, I realized that the decision to come back to Seattle, to leave behind the life I had been chasing, wasn't a step backward. It was a step toward something I couldn't yet name, but that I was starting to understand. For the first time, I felt like I was building a future that felt real. Maybe that's all I needed to start with--just the truth of who I was, standing here, in this city, with the space to figure it out.

---

The more I spent time in Seattle, the more I began to realize how much I had been running from. I'd thought I needed to leave--to step away from everything I'd known in order to find something better. New York had given me everything I thought I wanted: the fast pace, the career, the recognition. But now that I was back in Seattle, I started seeing all the things I had abandoned, things that had always been a part of me but that I had overlooked in my pursuit of success. The friends, the moments, the small, quiet joys that had once felt so comforting.

I still didn't have it all figured out. The weight of my decision to leave New York still lingered in the back of my mind. There were days when I felt like I'd made a mistake. But then, there were moments when everything felt right. When I took a deep breath and realized I didn't have to rush anymore, I could breathe at my own pace. The pressure had been lifted, and for the first time, I wasn't drowning under the weight of expectations.

I spent the next few weeks getting reacquainted with the city I had left behind. I walked around the streets, revisiting old spots, sometimes running into familiar faces. It was the strangest feeling. Seattle felt smaller now, but in a way that was comforting. The familiar faces, the quiet parks, the community that had always been there--it all made me realize that this place had always been my foundation, even when I hadn't known it.

And then one evening, while I was sitting in my small apartment with a cup of tea, the thought crossed my mind.

I need to reach out to Carla.

She had been my friend, my confidante through all the years I had spent chasing a dream that was never truly mine. She had always been there, even when I had distanced myself from everyone. I needed her, now more than ever. I needed someone who understood me--the old me, the version of myself that had loved this city, that had been part of something real before I started running.

I pulled out my phone and hesitated for a moment. It had been months since I'd last talked to her. I had kept my distance, consumed by my new life and my own internal battles. But this wasn't about the past. This was about me, and the person I was finally starting to become.

Hey Carla, I typed, taking a deep breath before I sent it. I don't know why I've waited so long to reach out, but I've been thinking about you. I'm back in Seattle. It's been a crazy year, and I feel like I've been avoiding a lot of things. Would love to catch up, if you have time.

I pressed send before I could second-guess myself. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed with a reply.

I've been waiting for you to reach out, Carla's message said. It's been too long. Let's meet tomorrow. Same place?

I smiled, a weight lifting off my chest. The idea of sitting down with Carla, of reconnecting with someone who knew me so well, felt like the first step back to myself. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her, how much I needed that understanding, that support.

The next day, we met at our usual spot--a small café near the park, tucked away from the noise of the city. It felt good to be there, to sit across from Carla, the one person who had always understood the parts of me I had buried. She looked exactly the same, that same easy smile and mischievous glint in her eyes. It was like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

"Erin," she said, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. "You've been keeping secrets. Spill. What the hell happened?"

I laughed, feeling the familiar comfort of her no-nonsense attitude. It was good to hear her voice, to feel like I wasn't carrying this weight alone. I could already feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease.

"Life happened," I said, shrugging a little. "I think I've been running for a while. I needed to stop and figure out where I belong."

Carla nodded, like she already knew what I meant. "So, what now? What's next for you?"

I took a deep breath, letting myself relax into the chair. For the first time in months, I felt like I could say it out loud.

"I don't know," I said quietly. "But I think I'm ready to figure it out. And maybe it's time to stop running."

Carla leaned back, a knowing smile crossing her face. "That's what I like to hear, Erin. About damn time."

We spent the next few hours talking about everything--about old times, about what we'd been up to, about the years we had lost touch. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was floating through life without a purpose. With Carla, I felt like I was grounded again. She reminded me of the woman I used to be, the one who had once lived in Seattle and felt like she belonged here. And I realized that I wasn't starting over--I was coming back to the person I had always been.

It wasn't going to be easy, and I wasn't going to find all the answers overnight. But I was finally ready to start living again. And this time, I was going to do it for me.

_________________

Ghosts in Aisle 3 -

Erin:

I hadn't planned on walking into OEO. It wasn't on my to-do list that afternoon. I was just in the neighborhood, picking up a gift for my niece's birthday--something simple, something that wouldn't make me feel like I was trying too hard. But as I walked past the OEO storefront, I couldn't resist. It had been a long time since I'd seen the place--since I'd seen Matt's work in action. I figured I'd take a quick look, find something for my niece, and be on my way.

The bell above the door jingled softly as I walked inside, the familiar scent of cedar and fresh air filling my lungs. The store looked exactly as I remembered it--polished, warm, and bustling with people. Customers perused the aisles, discussing gear, bikes, and adventures. But the moment I stepped in, my eyes landed on something that made my breath catch in my throat.

There he was.

Matt.

He was standing a few aisles away, crouched down next to a little girl--his daughter. She couldn't have been older than seven, with a ponytail that bounced as she moved. She was tugging at a jacket on the shelf, excitedly showing it to Matt. He looked down at her, a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips, the kind of smile I remembered from a time when I thought I knew him completely.

For a second, I stood frozen, just watching him. The world felt like it slowed down, like the air around me thickened and the sounds of the store faded into the background. It had been ten years since I'd last seen Matt, and in all that time, I hadn't imagined what it would be like to see him again. I hadn't thought I would feel so much all at once--the shock, the awe, the silence.

I thought about leaving. I thought about turning around and walking out the door, pretending I hadn't seen him. But something rooted me to the spot. I couldn't tear my eyes away. This was real. He was here, with his daughter, living the life I had never allowed myself to imagine. The life I had walked away from.

Lena tugged at his sleeve, pulling him to another part of the store, her voice bright with excitement. "Dad, look! This one's my favorite!" she said, grinning as she held up a brightly colored jacket.

I hadn't realized I was moving until I found myself walking toward them, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know why I couldn't turn around and leave. But something inside me needed to see him--needed to hear his voice again.

Just as I reached the end of the aisle, Matt stood up and turned. Our eyes met, and the recognition was instantaneous. His expression shifted--a brief flash of surprise, followed by a hesitation that I couldn't quite place. For a moment, we just stood there, facing each other across the space. His gaze softened, as if he was seeing a ghost from his past.

"Erin," he said, his voice low, almost unsure. His eyes flickered briefly to Lena, who was still picking out jackets a few feet away, completely unaware of the tension between us. He looked back at me, his expression guarded but not cold. "I didn't expect to see you here."

I opened my mouth, but the words didn't come out. I wanted to ask about Lena, about how she was doing, how everything had changed. But I couldn't find the words, couldn't get past the lump in my throat. The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of the years that had passed and the things left unsaid.

Finally, Lena glanced up from the jacket she was holding and noticed me standing there. Her face lit up instantly, the way a child's does when they recognize someone familiar.

"Mom?" she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

I blinked, thrown off for a second, before I realized what she had said. My chest tightened.

"No," Matt said quickly, turning to her with a soft smile. "This is Erin. A friend of mine."

Lena's eyes flicked back to me, her smile uncertain, and then back to Matt. "Oh, okay." She tugged on his sleeve, impatient. "Can we go get ice cream now?"

Matt chuckled, glancing at me one more time. His smile was gentle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sure, kiddo. We're almost done here."

And with that, they both turned, walking toward the door. My feet felt glued to the floor, my heart still racing in my chest. I should have said something. I should have asked about her, about him. But I couldn't. The distance between us felt like a canyon, too wide to cross in one conversation.

I watched them go, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft chime. I couldn't breathe for a moment. It wasn't just that I had seen Matt again. It was the realization that I hadn't even known what I'd been missing all this time. I had spent so long pushing my past away, convincing myself that moving forward meant leaving everything behind. But now, standing in the middle of OEO, it felt like I had just run into a part of myself I hadn't been ready to face.

---

I couldn't get the image of Matt and Lena out of my head.

After they left OEO, I stood there for a while, the sounds of the store bustling around me, but I wasn't really present. I had come in to buy a simple gift for my niece. Instead, I had walked into a reality that felt like it had been waiting for me all these years. Lena, with her bright smile and boundless energy, and Matt--standing there, looking so much like the man I used to know, but so completely different.

I had spent a year and a half in Seattle, trying to start fresh, trying to outrun the ghosts of my past. I thought I had made peace with my decisions. I thought the distance between me and Matt would make the memories fade. But seeing him again, seeing him with Lena, a child who I had never met, who was a part of him in a way I could never be, brought everything back. The love. The loss. The regret.

I walked out of OEO in a daze, the gift for my niece still wrapped in my bag, forgotten. The air felt colder than it should've, and the city, which had always felt so vibrant and alive, now felt heavy, suffocating. I needed to process everything, but I didn't know where to start.

I had made the decision to leave New York, thinking it would bring me peace, thinking it would fill the void that had grown between me and the life I had built there. But standing outside that store, feeling the rush of old emotions flood me, I realized I hadn't given myself a chance to grieve. I hadn't allowed myself to feel the weight of what I had left behind, what I had walked away from.

I needed space. I needed time. But most of all, I needed to talk to someone. Someone who had known me when I was still myself. Someone who could help me make sense of this.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed out a message to Carla. I didn't even think twice. I just needed to reach out.

Carla, I just saw Matt. With his daughter. Lena. I didn't expect it, and I don't know how to feel. I don't know what to do with all of this. Can we talk?

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, and the weight of it hit me immediately. Carla was one of the few people who had known the old me--the one who still believed in love, in connection, before I started running away from everything I didn't understand. I hadn't been able to reach out for months, hadn't wanted to. But now, after seeing Matt again, everything felt so... unresolved.

The text from Carla came through almost immediately.

Of course. I'm here, whenever you need me. Let's meet tomorrow?

I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the weight of everything I had kept bottled up for so long. There was no running anymore. I had to face it. Face him. Face myself.

I sat down on a bench outside the store, letting the cold air settle around me, trying to collect my thoughts. I had spent so many years convincing myself that my decision to leave was the right one, that I had made the right choice by pursuing success, by following my career. But now, standing here in Seattle, seeing Matt with Lena, something shifted inside me. It was like a part of me had come home, but not in the way I thought I would. I wasn't sure if I was ready to confront what I had left behind, but I couldn't keep running from it.

The truth was, I had never stopped loving him. I had convinced myself that moving on meant moving forward, but looking at Matt, at the life he had built with Lena, I realized that some pieces of me--some pieces of us--would always be there, no matter how far apart we had drifted. And maybe that was okay. Maybe the only thing I had to do now was accept it.

---

I met Carla at our old café the next morning. It was one of the few places in Seattle that hadn't changed over the years. The same barista, the same creaky wooden chairs, the same lingering scent of freshly ground coffee beans. It felt like stepping into a different time, one I thought I'd left behind. I almost didn't recognize myself in the reflection of the window when I walked inside, like I had changed so much that I wasn't sure who I was anymore.

Carla was already sitting at a table by the window, a cup of coffee in front of her. She looked up as I approached, her face softening when she saw me. No words were needed. She knew. She could tell something was off. She always could.

"Hey," I said, forcing a smile as I sat down. "Thanks for meeting me."

Carla shrugged, leaning back in her chair, her eyes kind but serious. "You know I'm always here. So... what's going on? You don't send me a text like that unless something big has happened."

I hesitated, swallowing the lump in my throat. I didn't know where to begin. The words I had seen in the OEO article, the shock of seeing Matt again, the flood of emotions I couldn't control. I took a deep breath before I spoke.

"I saw Matt," I said quietly, looking down at my coffee. "I walked into OEO to buy a gift, and there he was. With Lena. His daughter."

Carla's eyes softened as she processed my words. "I see," she said slowly, taking a sip of her coffee. "And how did it feel?"

I exhaled, trying to find the words. "Surreal. I didn't expect it. I've been avoiding thinking about him, about everything that happened. And then seeing him with Lena, it just hit me. Like a wave I couldn't dodge. I thought I was over all of it. But seeing them together... it felt like everything I left behind came rushing back. And now I don't know what to do with it. I don't know where I fit into this picture anymore."

Carla leaned forward, her eyes focused on me. "Erin," she said softly, "you've been carrying around a lot of guilt, haven't you?"

I nodded, my throat tightening. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought leaving would be good for me. That I could find myself in New York, that I could finally achieve everything I wanted. But seeing Matt again, seeing his life with Lena... I feel like I've missed out on so much. I've spent all this time chasing something that never made me feel whole. And now I'm looking at him, and I'm not sure where I stand anymore. I don't know if it's too late."

Carla paused, looking at me with that quiet intensity that always made me feel seen. "You know, Erin, you're not the only one who changed. Matt did too. He built this life without you, and it's been a huge success. But that doesn't mean there's no space for you in it anymore. You're not the same person you were when you left. And he's not either. People change. But that doesn't mean there's no way back."

I felt a sting in my chest at the thought of going back--back to Matt, to everything we once had. But Carla's words lingered in my mind. "But what if it's too late? What if he's moved on?"

Carla's gaze softened, her voice steady and reassuring. "I don't think Matt's ever moved on from you. You were a huge part of his life, Erin. And Lena... she's a part of that too. She wouldn't be here without you. But you can't keep running from what's real. You have to face it. You have to decide if you're ready to take that step. To accept that what you left behind isn't as far gone as you thought. You've spent so much time telling yourself you don't belong there anymore. But maybe... just maybe, it's time to see if you do."

I didn't have an answer. Not yet. But Carla was right about one thing: I had been running. I had buried myself in work, in achievements, in the life I thought I needed. But seeing Matt again, seeing Lena, it reminded me of everything I had left behind--and everything I had never fully allowed myself to miss.

The truth was, I wasn't sure what would happen if I reached out to Matt again. If I tried to step back into that life. But I did know one thing: I wasn't ready to walk away without giving myself a chance to figure it out.

I sat back in my chair, letting the weight of Carla's words settle in. "I think I need to talk to him," I said quietly.

Carla gave me a knowing smile, a hint of pride in her eyes. "Then do it. But do it for you, not for anyone else. And don't let fear stop you."

-----------

Matt:

It had been three years since Ava passed, and the weight of it still lingered. Every day, I woke up to the same quiet apartment--empty of her laughter, her voice, the easy rhythm of the life we'd built together. It wasn't something you got used to. The silence never felt natural. It was just something you learned to endure, to move through, because there was no other choice.

Lena was growing up, and in many ways, she was my anchor. I'd never realized how much of my world had revolved around Ava until I was left to raise our daughter alone. Every milestone, every new word, every bike ride we took together--it was all shadowed by the absence of the woman who had been my partner in this. Sometimes, I found myself watching Lena and thinking about how much she reminded me of Ava--how her laugh sounded just like hers, how her eyes sparkled when she spoke about the things she loved. And sometimes, I wondered if Lena felt it too. The absence of her mother.

It was a Saturday morning, the kind of day when the city felt quieter than usual. Lena had been up since dawn, bouncing around the apartment, full of energy. I had promised her we'd go for a bike ride later in the day, but for now, I was trying to get through the paperwork stacked on the kitchen table.

"Daddy!" Lena called, her small voice ringing through the living room. She was holding her bike helmet in her hands, looking at me with that familiar, eager expression.

"Yeah, kiddo?" I asked, setting the papers aside, my gaze meeting hers.

She was standing in front of the door, her face a mix of excitement and impatience. "Can we go now? I wanna ride really fast today. Like Mommy used to," she said, her eyes lighting up.

I froze for a moment. She had done this before--spoken about Ava, about how Mommy used to ride fast with her. It was always casual, always innocent, but every time she mentioned it, it hit me like a punch to the gut. Ava was gone. And as much as I tried to fill that void for Lena, I knew there were some things I just couldn't replace.

"Sure, let's get your helmet on," I said, my voice steady even though I felt a tightness in my chest. I pushed away the lump in my throat, the ache that crept up every time Lena reminded me of what we had lost.

We went out into the parking lot, the chill of the morning air filling my lungs. Lena was already on her bike, circling the lot in small, excited loops. I watched her for a moment, admiring how confident she had become on her bike. She had always been fearless, even at a young age. But there were times when I caught myself wondering if she understood the things we didn't talk about--the things I didn't know how to explain.

I took my own bike out of the storage shed, adjusting the seat as Lena raced ahead, shouting back to me. "Catch me if you can, Daddy!"

I laughed, trying to sound as carefree as she was, but there was a heaviness in my heart that I couldn't shake. I pushed off, pedaling after her. She was fast, and for a few moments, it felt like we were back in the old rhythm, back to the days when things were simpler, when we were all together, when I didn't have to navigate the overwhelming weight of grief every day.

Lena led the way, as always, her laughter echoing in the empty lot. I followed her, pushing myself harder, trying to keep up. She glanced back at me, her face full of joy.

"Mommy used to beat you at this," she said with a grin.

I smiled, even though it hurt. "Yeah," I said, catching up to her. "Mommy was fast. But I think I can keep up now."

I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't ready to say the words out loud. To tell her that no matter how fast we rode, no matter how many loops we made around the parking lot, it would never be the same without Ava.

When the ride ended, we stopped for a break under a tree. Lena leaned against my side, her small hand finding mine. It was one of those moments where everything felt both too big and too small at the same time. Lena had grown so much, and yet there was a part of me that still saw the little girl she used to be, the one who needed me for everything.

"Daddy, can I ask you something?" she said, her voice quiet.

"Of course, sweetie," I replied, looking down at her.

"Do you think Mommy's watching us? Like, up in heaven?"

I paused, my heart aching, but I forced a smile. "I think she's always with us," I said, my voice rough. "In everything we do. In the way you ride your bike so fast, just like she did. In the way we remember her. She's still here, Lena."

She nodded, her small face serious, as if she understood. "I miss her," she said softly.

"I know, baby," I said, squeezing her hand. "I miss her too."

We sat there for a while, just the two of us, the world moving around us, and I realized that, no matter how much time passed, no matter how many bike rides we took or milestones we hit, I would always be carrying the weight of Ava's absence. But for Lena's sake, for both of us, I had to keep moving forward. I had to keep filling our days with joy, even if it hurt.

-----------

Erin:

The days that followed felt longer than usual, like time had slowed down, pulling my thoughts and emotions into a spiraling circle I couldn't break free from. I couldn't stop thinking about the image of Matt and Lena. The way he had smiled at her, the way his eyes softened when she asked if they could go ride in the rain, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They were a family. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like an outsider.

I hadn't expected the emotional punch of seeing them together. Matt had moved on--he'd built a life with someone else, with Lena, and as much as I tried to convince myself that I was happy for him, that he had done what he needed to do, something inside me shifted. I was happy for him, sure. But I was also... jealous. And, honestly, a little lost.

I had kept my distance for so long, convinced that leaving Seattle was the right thing to do. The bright lights of New York had pulled me in, promising fulfillment, success, everything I thought I needed. But now, sitting in my apartment, staring out the window at the rain, I wondered if it was really what I wanted. Maybe I had been running from what was right in front of me all along.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I missed Matt--not just the person I had left behind, but the life we could have had. The life I could still have, if I was brave enough to try. But the question I couldn't shake was whether it was too late. Had he already moved on? Had I missed my chance?

I opened my laptop, staring at the screen without really seeing anything. I kept thinking about the way Lena had looked at me in OEO, how she had called me "Mommy" without hesitation. How did I even begin to process that? I didn't know the first thing about being a part of their lives now. I didn't know how to fit back in.

But I couldn't just leave it there. I couldn't just walk away without at least knowing if there was something left between us. I had been so wrapped up in my own life, my own decisions, my own success, that I hadn't stopped to ask myself if it had been worth it. Worth leaving him. Worth walking away from everything that felt real.

With a deep breath, I typed out an email to Matt.

------------------------

Matt,

I don't know how to start this. I saw you the other day--at OEO. With Lena. I wasn't expecting it, and I can't stop thinking about it. I guess I've been thinking about you a lot, about everything that happened between us, and I realized how much I've avoided the truth. I don't expect things to go back to how they were, but I need to know if there's a chance to reconnect--to at least talk about everything. I've spent so much time running, and I'm tired. If you're open to it, I'd really like to catch up.

--Erin

-----------------------

I hovered over the send button for a moment, my finger trembling as I considered it. The old fear rose up--the fear of rejection, the fear that maybe I had already lost my chance. But then I remembered Lena's face, the way she had looked at me, like she knew something I didn't. I wasn't ready to let this story end with nothing but unanswered questions.

I hit send.

As soon as the email was gone, I felt the weight lift from my shoulders, but the uncertainty was still there, lingering in the pit of my stomach. I didn't know what would come next. I didn't know if Matt would even respond, if he was still willing to let me back into his life after everything I had walked away from. But I also knew that I needed to try. For my own peace. For closure. For something real.

-----------

Matt:

The email arrived early in the morning, just as I was sorting through some last-minute paperwork for OEO. I had barely had my first cup of coffee when I saw her name in my inbox. Erin.

My heart skipped a beat before I could even open it. The weight of it--her name, after so long, in my inbox--felt like a ghost from the past. I had spent years trying to move on, to build a life for Lena and me, and yet, every now and then, Erin would cross my mind. Not in a way that was painful anymore, but more like a memory I hadn't fully let go of.

I clicked open the email, my fingers moving slowly.

The words sat on the screen in front of me, the sentences floating, suspended, as if they had been waiting for me to read them for years. My mind raced, the memories flooding back--of everything we had shared, of the pain, of the years apart. I could feel the silence between us, years of unspoken words, suddenly so loud.

I leaned back in my chair, my hands still on the keyboard, trying to process. It had been years since Erin left. I had moved on, or at least I thought I had. I had Lena. I had OEO. I had built something that felt real, something that made me proud. But I wasn't fooling myself. I had never stopped missing her.

I thought about Lena. I thought about how much she looked like Erin when she smiled, how much she was growing every day, and how little I could do to help her understand the past. Lena had her own memories of Erin, but they were fading. She was so young when Erin left, and sometimes, she would ask questions that broke my heart--questions I couldn't answer.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I hadn't expected Erin to reach out like this. But now that she had, I wasn't sure what to do with it. I had built a life without her. I had made peace with the fact that she was gone. And now, here she was, asking to reconnect.

I thought about how much time had passed. About what had happened to me in the years since she left. How much I had changed. How much Lena had changed. I wasn't the same person I had been back then. And I had no idea what she would expect from me now. What could we talk about? What did we even have left to say?

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the decision settle in. I didn't know if it was the right time, if it was the right thing to do. But something inside me told me that I couldn't keep running from this, that I needed to find closure. I needed to know if we could ever talk again, if we could even try to rebuild whatever we had lost.

I typed a response slowly, carefully, trying to find the right words:

-------------------------

Erin,

I didn't expect to hear from you. I wasn't sure if I ever would. Seeing you again at OEO was... unexpected, to say the least. It's been a long time, and a lot has happened since you left. I've built a life with Lena. She's growing up fast, and I think she'd love to meet you again, if you're open to it.

I don't know what reconnecting would look like, but maybe we can talk. I'm not sure what comes next, but I'm willing to listen. I'm here if you want to talk. But please, no expectations. Just the truth. We'll go from there.

--Matt

-------------------------

I stared at the screen for a moment before hitting send. I wasn't sure if I was making the right choice, but I knew that leaving things unsaid wasn't going to help either of us. I'd spent years living with the silence, the absence of Erin in my life. Maybe it was time to finally let some of that go.

As I sat there, I couldn't help but think about what this meant for Lena, for us. She was growing up, and soon, she'd start asking about the past. About Erin. I couldn't shield her from that forever. And maybe, just maybe, this was the first step in figuring out how to move forward.

_________________

Introductions -

Matt:

The store buzzed with energy, as it always did. There was a hum to the place, the kind of liveliness that came from people who shared a love for the outdoors--people who loved OEO not just for the gear, but for the community it had built. But today, everything felt different. Today, everything felt heavy.

I stood at the entrance, my eyes on Lena as she wandered down the aisle, her backpack bouncing with every step. She didn't know what was happening. She didn't understand the weight of it, not yet. She was just excited to be here, to see the store again, to be with me. But I felt the tension in my shoulders, the quiet anticipation that had been building ever since Erin reached out.

When I glanced back at the door, I saw her standing there. Erin. She hadn't changed much. Still the same presence, the same poise, but with something softer in her eyes, something tentative, like she wasn't sure where she fit in anymore. She had arrived early, just like I had asked, but the silence between us was louder than anything.

I walked toward her, feeling the weight of the moment. "Are you ready?" I asked, though I wasn't sure if I meant for her to meet Lena or for me to finally face the reality of what had been unspoken between us for so many years.

Erin nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "I think so."

I led her to where Lena was standing near the bike section, testing out a helmet. She looked up as we approached, her face lighting up with the bright, curious energy only a seven-year-old could have.

"Lena," I said gently, crouching down to her level. "I'd like you to meet someone."

Lena's eyes widened. "Who?"

"This is Erin," I said softly, looking at Erin. "She... she used to be very important to me."

Lena looked up at Erin, studying her with the curiosity only children could afford. "Hi, Erin," she said, her voice shy but not unkind.

Erin smiled, that same small, uncertain smile that still made my heart ache. "Hi, Lena," she said, crouching down to meet her eyes. "It's nice to finally meet you."

The air between them felt like it was thick with more than just their words. There was an unspoken distance--a gap that wasn't just about time, but about the things that had been left behind. I could see the hesitation in both of them. Lena, unsure of who this person was in relation to her. Erin, unsure of how to step into a world that had moved on without her.

The silence stretched for a moment before I cleared my throat. "I know this is a lot, Lena," I said, standing up and glancing between the two of them. "But Erin's been a part of my life for a long time, and I wanted you both to meet."

Lena's gaze shifted back to Erin, her eyes still soft with that childlike curiosity. "Are you gonna ride bikes with me?" she asked, her voice full of innocent hope, a simple question that cut through the tension.

I watched Erin's face soften as she looked at Lena, and for the first time, I saw the smallest flicker of something familiar in Erin's eyes--something that looked a lot like longing. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I'd love to ride bikes with you," Erin said, her voice steadier now, her smile more real.

There was still a lot of space between them. Too much, I thought. But this was a start. This was the beginning of something, a bridge we had to build slowly, carefully.

The soft chime of the store door opening drew my attention away. I looked over to see Rebecca walking in, her warm smile lighting up the room as always. She saw me first and gave me a small nod, a quiet understanding in her gaze. But when she saw Erin, the smile softened, and she walked over, her steps gentle but sure.

"Erin," she said, her voice warm and welcoming, "It's good to see you again."

I watched as Erin stiffened just a bit. I couldn't blame her. But Rebecca was never one to force anything. She stepped closer, her eyes bright with unspoken warmth.

"I know it's been a while," Rebecca continued, her smile softening. "But we're all family here, no matter the distance. Welcome back."

Erin's eyes flickered with something that was too fleeting for me to read. She nodded, a slight tremor in her smile. "Thanks, Rebecca," she said quietly. "It's good to be back."

The tension wasn't gone--not by any means. But in this small, quiet moment, I saw a shift. Erin was here. Lena was here. And for the first time in years, it felt like we could begin again. Slowly. Carefully. But with the promise that there was still something worth rebuilding.

I stood back, watching them. Watching Lena, who didn't know anything of the past, just excited to meet someone who was important to me. Watching Erin, who had stepped into a world she had walked away from but was still willing to try. And watching Rebecca, who understood more than anyone the power of forgiveness, of second chances.

It wasn't going to be easy, but it was a start.

_________________

Unresolved -

Erin:

The rain had stopped by the time I made my way to Lake Side Cycles. I hadn't planned on coming here today. In fact, I hadn't even thought about it until my feet found themselves walking toward the familiar, worn doors. The neighborhood hadn't changed much, but I had. I'd changed in ways that weren't always visible on the outside. But here, standing on the sidewalk in front of the place where it all began, I couldn't help but feel like I was walking into another life.

The door chimed as I pushed it open, and the familiar scent of rubber and wood hit me immediately. It was a smell I'd once taken for granted--one that used to comfort me in a way I hadn't realized until now. The store was quieter than I remembered. There were a few people browsing, but the bustling energy I'd once felt when I worked here was absent. Instead, there was a peaceful stillness, as if the store was waiting, patiently, for something to fill the space.

I let my eyes wander over the familiar shelves, the bikes lined up in perfect rows, the walls adorned with accessories and tools I used to know so well. It was a snapshot of the past--a time when I was part of something that felt so real. So alive. Back then, we had been building more than just a business. We were building a dream. And I had walked away from it. From him. From everything.

I took a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle in my chest. The years had passed, but the ache didn't feel like it had gone anywhere. It was just a quiet, constant presence, lingering in the corners of my thoughts.

I walked deeper into the store, running my fingers over the shelves, letting the tactile familiarity ground me. As I moved past the bike repair section, something caught my eye. The old wooden beams that ran across the ceiling, worn from years of use. They had always been a part of the charm of the store, the rustic, authentic feel that had made it special.

I walked toward one of the beams, drawn to it like it had some kind of magnetic pull. And there it was.

My initials, carved into the wood.

E+M.

The carving was faint now, faded with time, but there was no mistaking it. The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. We had done that together--Matt and I. Late one night, after the store was closed, when the air was thick with the smell of fresh paint and old wood. I had taken the small carving knife, and he had held the flashlight, our fingers brushing in the dark.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

E+M. The first logo. The symbol of everything we had built together, before it all fell apart.

I reached up, my fingers tracing the grooves of the carving, as if somehow doing so would bring me closer to the past. To us. To what we had before I left.

A soft voice broke through my reverie.

"Can I help you with something?" The clerk stood a few feet away, watching me with a kind but curious expression.

I pulled my hand away from the beam, startled, and forced a smile. "No, thank you. Just... just reminiscing," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

He nodded, offering a polite smile before turning back to his work. I stood there for a moment longer, staring at the carvings, the memories that still felt so fresh despite everything. I had walked away from this place, from Matt, from the life we had started building, convinced that the next step in my career would bring me fulfillment. But now, standing here, I realized how much I had lost.

The ache in my chest wasn't just about what I had left behind. It was about the unresolved pieces, the things I hadn't said, the chances I hadn't taken. I hadn't given myself permission to grieve the life I had walked away from. I hadn't given myself permission to miss Matt, to miss what we had.

I turned and walked toward the door, the weight of the past heavy on my shoulders. As I stepped outside, the cool air hit my face, but it didn't feel like it was enough to clear the fog that had settled over my mind.

I wasn't sure what I was hoping for by coming here. Maybe I thought I'd find some kind of closure, some kind of answer that would make the pain go away. But all I had found was a reminder of everything I had left behind and everything that had remained unresolved.

I didn't know where to go from here. But standing in front of Lake Side Cycles, I knew one thing for sure: I couldn't keep running from my past. I had to face it. I had to face the person I used to be, and the person I had become.

_________________

Two Rides -

Erin:

The trail hadn't changed.

It had been years--too many years--since I had ridden through this particular stretch of land. The trail where Matt and I used to bike together, where everything felt simpler, lighter. I had almost forgotten how much I missed it--the familiar twists and turns, the cool dampness in the air, the scent of wet earth and pine. The only thing different was the weight that hung in the air between Matt and me, the things unsaid, the years we'd lost.

It had started to rain as soon as we'd left the parking lot, the sky darkening almost immediately. At first, I thought it would be too much, that the weather would make the ride uncomfortable. But something about it felt right. It felt like it was meant to be, like the rain had come to wash away the weight of everything that had happened between us.

Matt was in front of me, moving effortlessly through the wet earth, the sound of his tires cutting through the mud blending with the rhythm of my own. I hadn't realized how much I had missed this--riding side by side, the world narrowing to just the trail ahead and the feeling of the wind (or in this case, rain) against your skin. The silence between us was natural, not awkward. It wasn't the silence of discomfort. It was the silence of two people who had once shared everything, who now shared the same air, the same trail, but without the words to fill it.

I had no idea what to say to him. After everything that had happened--after the years of separation, the distance, the misunderstandings--it felt impossible to bridge the gap. We hadn't talked much since we'd reconnected, and even now, as we rode together through the rain, the space between us felt too wide to cross with words alone.

Matt glanced back at me occasionally, his expression unreadable, as though he was holding back, unsure of what I wanted from him. And maybe I didn't know what I wanted from him, either. The past was still too fresh, too sharp in my mind, and I didn't know if I had the right to ask for more than what I had walked away from.

We reached the old clearing--our spot--where the trail curved around a bend, opening up to a small meadow. I slowed my pace, letting the cool rain fall against my face, washing away the tension in my shoulders. I stopped beside Matt, who had already dismounted and was standing beside his bike, his head tilted slightly upward as though he, too, was letting the rain soak in.

The silence stretched between us for a long moment, and I felt the old comfort of being near him--of being in this place we had once shared. The rain was steady now, the kind that made everything feel fresh, like it was cleaning away the past.

Finally, Matt spoke. His voice was soft, quiet, but steady.

"It's different," he said, looking out over the meadow. "But it's still the same, you know?"

I nodded, unsure of how to respond. It was the truth. The trail hadn't changed, the trees still stood tall, the path still curved just right. But everything else had. We had changed. We had been different people, living different lives, and no matter how much I wanted to reach back to the way things were, I couldn't go back. Not entirely.

"I remember the first time we rode here," I said, my voice a little quieter than I intended. "It was raining that day too."

Matt smiled softly, the expression small but genuine. "I remember," he said. "You were so damn determined to beat me, even though you could barely see through the rain."

I laughed, the memory warm despite the chill in the air. "I didn't care. I wanted to win."

"I think you were determined not to let the rain stop you. I remember thinking you were crazy, but I respected it," he said, his smile widening slightly. "You've always been like that."

It wasn't much--just a few words, a brief exchange--but it felt like a bridge. A start, at least. Not everything could be said in one ride, not everything could be fixed with a few sentences. But there was something about this moment--the rain, the trail, the shared history--that made it easier to breathe. Easier to exist in the space between us.

The rain began to fall heavier, and I could feel it soaking into my clothes, chilling me, but I didn't want to leave yet. Not yet. We weren't done here. Not in this place, not with these feelings. Not with the quiet way Matt had opened up, even if only for a second.

"You know," Matt said, breaking the silence, "you're still the same person. You still fight for what you want. Even in the rain."

I smiled, feeling a flicker of something in my chest. "I guess I'm stubborn."

"I guess that's why I always liked you," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of years.

We didn't say much more after that. We got back on our bikes, riding through the rain in silence, but it wasn't awkward anymore. It was just us--the way we used to be, the way we would always be, even with the distance we had built. We were the same, and yet different. But the rain, the trail, the shared memories--they were enough for now.

And maybe, just maybe, that was all we needed.

_________________

Truths and Tears -

Erin:

We met at the park, the same one where we used to ride bikes together. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy, as if the clouds themselves were holding onto something they couldn't release. I had asked Matt if we could meet, and when he agreed, I hadn't realized just how much I was dreading it. This conversation had been a decade in the making. A decade of silence, of assumptions, of running away from what had happened between us.

I stood by the bench, trying to steady myself, my hands fidgeting with the strap of my bag. I had rehearsed the words a thousand times, in my head, on paper, but now that I was here, in front of him, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to say any of them.

Matt arrived a few minutes later, walking slowly toward me, his eyes scanning the park, maybe looking for me, maybe just lost in his own thoughts. When he saw me, his expression softened--familiar, yet distant. He had changed so much over the years, and I had too. But in this moment, standing in front of him, it felt like we had never been apart.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Hey," I replied, my voice shaky. "Thanks for meeting me."

"Of course," he said, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than I expected, before he glanced down at the bench. "You okay?"

I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I was. I had wanted this for so long, but now that it was here, the weight of it was too much. I sat down first, and after a brief hesitation, he joined me, leaving a space between us that felt both comforting and painful.

"I don't even know where to begin," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've spent ten years thinking I was doing the right thing--thinking leaving was what I needed. I thought New York would fill whatever was missing in me, but it didn't. It hasn't. I'm not the person I thought I'd be."

Matt looked at me, his expression unreadable, but I could see something in his eyes--maybe recognition, maybe something more. He didn't say anything at first, and I realized he wasn't pushing me. He was waiting for me to say what I had to say, without forcing it.

"I owe you an apology," I continued, my voice trembling now. "For leaving. For walking away without even giving you a chance to try. I thought I was doing what was best for me, but I wasn't. I wasn't thinking about you. Or about Lena. I just... left. I couldn't see how much you needed me. How much I needed you."

I paused, my hands tightening around the strap of my bag. The words felt heavier now, harder to say. But I had to say them.

"I'm sorry, Matt. I'm so sorry."

The silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on me, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't the silence of avoidance. It was the kind of silence that existed in a space of shared pain--pain that had been buried for too long.

Finally, Matt spoke, his voice low, controlled. "I know you are, Erin. I've always known that. But it doesn't make it easier. You left. And it took me a long time to understand why. I spent years blaming myself for not being enough. For not being the man who could make you stay."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I had never fully understood the depth of his pain until now. He had carried that weight for ten years, just as I had carried my own. But his had been wrapped in guilt. In wondering if he had done something wrong. I never realized how much he had suffered because of my decision.

"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "But Matt, I didn't leave because of you. I left because of me. I was running from something inside me that I didn't understand. And I thought that leaving would fix it. But it didn't. It just made everything worse."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, his eyes searching, the weight of the past heavy in the air between us. "I get it now. I do. And I know I wasn't perfect either, Erin. But I tried to move on. I had to for Lena."

At the mention of Lena's name, something twisted in my chest. She was a part of him now--his world, his heart. I knew that, but hearing him speak about her so gently, with such love, reminded me of what I had walked away from.

"I tried to make sense of it all," Matt continued, his voice softer now. "But every time I looked at Lena, I saw you. I saw the way she looked at me, asking questions I didn't know how to answer. I wasn't ready for that, Erin. I wasn't ready to be a single father, to do it all on my own. But I did. And I've loved every moment with her. Even the hard ones."

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall, because this was the truth we had both needed to hear. The truth that had been buried beneath everything we hadn't said.

"I can't change the past, Erin," Matt said quietly, his voice a little rough now, like the emotion was breaking through. "But I'm not going to let it define me anymore. I have Lena. I have OEO. I have a life I'm proud of. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay."

I nodded, my heart aching for him--for us. For everything we had been, everything we had lost. And yet, in that moment, I realized something. Matt had done more than survive. He had built a life. A good life. And for the first time in years, I realized that maybe--just maybe--there was still space for me in it.

But I wasn't going to rush that. Not yet.

"I'm glad you're okay," I whispered, my voice raw with emotion. "And I hope... I hope Lena gets to know me. If she wants to."

"She will," Matt said, his voice steady now. "In time."

We sat there for a while, the words we had needed to say finally out in the open. And for the first time, it felt like we could start again--not in the way we had imagined, but in a way that was right for us. Whatever came next, we had opened the door. And maybe that was enough.

---

The next few days felt like a slow unraveling. I had reached out to Matt, yes, but now I had to face the reality of being in Lena's world. I knew I couldn't just step in as if nothing had changed--because everything had. Ten years had passed, and in those ten years, I had missed so much. Lena was no longer the baby I had said goodbye to all those years ago. She was seven now--growing, learning, becoming her own person.

When I first saw Lena again, it had been awkward. She had called me Mommy at OEO, and I had frozen, not knowing how to respond. I wasn't her mother. I wasn't even sure what place I had in her life anymore. But I couldn't let that moment pass without addressing it, so I had smiled and told her that I was Erin, a friend of her dad's, someone who had known him a long time ago. She seemed to accept it easily enough, but I could tell there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. A question that I wasn't sure how to answer.

Now, a few days later, I stood outside Matt's apartment building. I had promised him I would visit, that I would try to get to know Lena again. But standing here, just feet from the door, I felt my hesitation return. What if she didn't want me there? What if my presence was just another reminder of a time long gone?

I took a deep breath and rang the bell.

Matt opened the door almost immediately, his face softening when he saw me. "Hey," he said, stepping aside to let me in. "Lena's in the living room. We're just hanging out."

"Okay," I said, forcing a smile. I felt an overwhelming wave of uncertainty. I had missed out on so much. How would I fit into this world, this routine they had built without me?

As we walked into the living room, Lena was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by toys. When she saw me, her face lit up with that bright, innocent smile that was so familiar, yet so different from the little girl I remembered.

"Hi, Erin!" she said, her voice full of excitement. "Daddy said you were coming today!"

"Hey, Lena," I said, my voice a little softer than I intended. "How are you?"

"I'm good!" she replied, bouncing a little in her seat. "I got new markers yesterday. Wanna see?"

I nodded, walking over to her and sitting down. She eagerly grabbed a piece of paper and handed it to me, showing me her drawings with so much pride. As I looked at the scribbled colors and shapes, I realized how much she had grown. She was a different person from the baby I remembered. She was her own person now, and that realization hit me harder than I expected.

"You're really good at this," I said, smiling as I studied her work.

Lena beamed. "Thanks! Daddy says I'll be an artist when I grow up."

I glanced at Matt, who was standing a few feet away, watching us with an unreadable expression. He smiled softly when he saw me looking at him, and I could feel the weight of unspoken words between us.

Lena looked back at me, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Do you like to draw, Erin?"

I hesitated, thinking back to the days when I used to draw with Matt. The memories were there, but they felt distant now, like something I could touch only if I reached far enough back.

"I used to," I said quietly. "Maybe I'll try again, though. It looks like fun."

Matt stepped forward, his voice light. "I think Lena would love it if you joined her."

I looked at him, surprised by how easy it was to fall back into this. It was like I had never left, and yet, everything had changed. Matt had built a life without me. He had raised Lena without me. And I wasn't sure how to fit into that. But right now, in this moment, it felt okay. It felt like a step in the right direction.

Lena handed me a new sheet of paper, clearly excited for me to start drawing with her. "Let's draw something together!"

I smiled at her, my heart heavy but full. Let's start fresh, I thought to myself, sitting down beside her. One step at a time.

The afternoon passed slowly, filled with laughter, colors, and quiet moments. I drew a few simple shapes alongside Lena, trying to find my place again in this small, yet significant, part of her life. I was still figuring it out, still working through the regret, the fear, the uncertainty. But as I sat there, surrounded by Matt and Lena, I realized something important: I didn't have to have all the answers right now. I didn't have to fix everything.

All I had to do was show up. And for the first time in a long time, that felt enough.

---

It had been a week since I had spent that afternoon with Lena and Matt. In some ways, it felt like a quiet victory. There was no grand reconciliation, no immediate shift in our relationship, but there was something there. Something I couldn't quite place. It was a crack in the silence that had stretched between us for ten years. We weren't fixed, not by any means, but we had started something. A slow rebuild.

Matt and I had talked more since that day--small, careful conversations about Lena, about the business, about the years that had passed. It was the way two people reconnect after a long, painful silence--awkward at first, unsure, but steady. It wasn't easy, but it felt right.

Still, every conversation carried an undercurrent. There were things we had never addressed, things we couldn't avoid forever.

Tonight, we were meeting for dinner--just the two of us. Lena was at her friend's house, and Matt had suggested we grab a bite, just to talk. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would we pick up where we left off, or would the weight of the past resurface again?

When I arrived at the restaurant, I was surprised to see Matt already sitting at the table. He wasn't in a rush, wasn't checking his phone, wasn't worried about what was coming next. He was just waiting. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like we had room to breathe.

"Hey," I said as I sat down, giving him a tentative smile. "I didn't think you'd be here before me."

He looked up, his face softening when he saw me. "I'm early," he said simply, a small, genuine smile crossing his lips. "I figured I'd beat you here for once."

I laughed lightly, something about the moment making the tension in my chest ease just a little. It had been so long since we'd shared this kind of moment, this easy back-and-forth, and it reminded me of how comfortable we used to be.

We spent the first few minutes talking about Lena. How she had taken to her new school, how she'd started asking more questions about her mom, questions I wasn't ready for but knew were coming. We laughed about how she still believed she could win every race, even when it was clear she hadn't quite mastered the art of balance on her bike yet.

But as the conversation shifted, I felt the familiar weight of unspoken words settle between us. The past, the things I hadn't said, the things I wasn't sure how to address, lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

"I've been thinking," Matt began, his voice softer than usual, his eyes avoiding mine for a moment. "About the time we spent apart. About everything I didn't say when you left."

I felt a tightness in my chest at his words, but I didn't interrupt. I wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, even if it was harder than I expected.

"I was angry, Erin," he said quietly. "I was angry because I didn't understand why you left. Because you just... left. And I blamed myself for it. I thought if I had been different, if I had been more... something, maybe you would have stayed."

I opened my mouth to speak, to apologize, but he held up his hand, stopping me. "I don't blame you anymore," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I've had a long time to figure that out. I had to let it go, because I realized something important. You left because you needed to. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about us. You were running from something inside yourself, and I couldn't fix that. I couldn't change it. And that hurt. But I get it now."

The air between us felt charged. The things he had just said, the truth of it all, hung in the space between us like a bridge we had finally crossed. The words we had avoided for so long were finally being spoken, and I felt the weight of them pressing down on me, pulling me into a place I hadn't been ready to go.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible, my heart heavy with all the regret I had carried for years. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Matt. I was scared. I thought leaving would fix me, but it didn't. It made everything harder."

He finally met my gaze, his eyes softening. There was something in his expression now--something that had shifted, something that hadn't been there before. "I know," he said simply. "And I'm sorry too. For all the things I didn't say. I didn't know how to deal with it. But we're here now. And that's what matters."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything between us finally giving way to something more. Understanding. Acceptance.

I didn't know where this would go. I didn't know if we would ever be able to pick up the pieces of our past and build something new. But in that moment, I realized something important--that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't about fixing everything. It was about being honest with each other. It was about facing the past, not running from it. And for the first time, I felt the possibility of starting over--not in the way I had imagined, but in a way that felt like it could be real.

"I don't know what comes next," I said quietly, my voice breaking the silence. "But I'm willing to try. I don't want to keep running."

Matt reached across the table, his hand resting on mine, warm and steady. "Neither do I," he said softly. "Neither do I."

_________________

Drawing Lines -

Erin:

The afternoon had a quiet, peaceful quality to it. Matt and Lena were out, running errands, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I had spent the morning cleaning the apartment, unpacking the last of the boxes that had been sitting in the corner since I had moved in. I'd always kept busy, but something about today felt different.

I was beginning to feel like I could breathe here. There was no pressure to prove anything, no expectation to become someone else. Seattle, in its own way, was giving me space to process the mess I had made of my life over the years. I didn't know if I had figured everything out, but I knew that this place--this life I was beginning to rebuild--was where I needed to be.

When they came home, Lena was the first to burst through the door, her sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor. She ran up to me, holding something in her hands.

"Look, Erin!" she said, her voice full of excitement. "I made this for you!"

She handed me the drawing, and my heart stilled for a moment when I looked at it. It was a simple drawing, done in bright crayon strokes--Lena's distinct, childlike style. There was Matt, with his dark hair and big smile, and there was Lena beside him, drawn just as she looked--bright eyes, a little giggle, her playful stance. But the figure next to Lena was the one that stopped me.

It was me. My face, awkwardly drawn with a smile that I recognized as her interpretation of me--bright, yet somehow uncertain. And underneath the drawing, Lena had written:

"My Daddy, Me, and You."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check, but I couldn't. The simple act of her drawing us--of her including me--made everything I had been holding in come to the surface. I wasn't just Erin to her anymore. I was a part of this life. I had a place in it.

I felt the tears before I realized they were coming, and before I could stop them, they were spilling down my cheeks. Lena, looking concerned, leaned in and wiped them away with her tiny hand.

"Are you okay, Erin?" she asked, her voice soft and innocent.

I nodded, my voice thick with emotion. "Yeah, sweetie. I'm just so happy." I smiled through the tears, bending down to hug her tightly. "Thank you for this. It means more than you know."

Matt stood in the doorway, watching us with a small smile on his face. He didn't say anything, but I saw the warmth in his eyes, the understanding that came from shared history and the connection we had rebuilt over the past weeks.

As Lena ran off to put the drawing on the fridge, I stood up, wiping my face with the back of my hand, trying to steady myself. But the truth, the one I had been avoiding for so long, was there--clearer than ever.

I turned to Matt, my heart racing. The moment felt right, but I had to say it. I had to stop running.

"I'm staying," I said, my voice quieter now, but firm. "For good. I've made up my mind."

Matt's expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving into a gentle smile. But there was something in his eyes--hope, maybe, or maybe just relief. I had always been afraid of my own decisions, afraid of stepping into something I wasn't sure I could handle. But this time, it felt different. I wasn't leaving. Not this time.

"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it," Matt said carefully, taking a step closer to me. "But if you do..."

"I mean it," I interrupted, stepping forward. I looked up at him, my chest tightening with both fear and certainty. "I'm here, Matt. For Lena. For us. For everything I walked away from and everything I never should have left behind."

Matt didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at me, like he was taking in the weight of my words. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly, his voice a little hoarse. "And I'm glad you're not running anymore."

I nodded, my eyes meeting his, finally allowing myself to feel the fullness of what I was saying. The years of silence, of regret, of missed chances--they hadn't vanished, but they didn't define me anymore.

Lena's laughter echoed from the other room as she pulled a chair over to the fridge to proudly hang her drawing. It felt like the world was in its right place, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

"We'll figure it out," Matt said, his voice steady and warm. "Together."

I smiled, my heart finally settling, the storm inside me calming for the first time in years.

And as I looked at Matt, standing beside me, and Lena, who was grinning widely at her artwork, I knew that whatever came next, I wouldn't have to face it alone.

_________________

Cycles -

Matt:

The rain had stopped, and the air was crisp in that way Seattle air always was before sunset. We were on our bikes, the three of us, riding along the trail that hugged the edge of Lake Union. It was familiar--too familiar in a way that made everything feel like it was coming full circle, but different in a way I didn't know how to explain. The sounds of our tires on the wet pavement, the occasional hum of an engine from a distant boat, the quiet rhythm of breathing.

There were no promises here. No grand speeches. No "this is where it all comes together." It was just motion. Just us, riding through the world we had somehow found our way back to. After everything--after all the years that had passed, the pain, the distance--it felt like we were finally in sync. Like we were riding for no other reason than to simply be here, together, in this moment.

Erin was ahead of me, her movements steady and confident, though I could see the small smile tugging at her lips every time she glanced back. Lena was a few paces behind her, zooming along with a speed that made me laugh every time she glanced over at us with that excited grin. She had inherited that from both of us--the willingness to push ahead, to take the next turn, to keep moving even when it didn't always make sense.

There was no rush. There didn't need to be. We weren't racing toward anything or away from anything. We were just riding. I could feel Erin beside me now, riding side by side with me for the first time in years, and it wasn't uncomfortable, wasn't strange--it was easy. And it made the space between us feel smaller, the years apart feel like less. Her presence was a quiet kind of healing.

I glanced over at her, catching the way her eyes reflected the soft colors of the sky as it dipped into evening. She was breathing in time with the motion of her bike, her face calm, peaceful. Maybe it was just the ride, maybe it was the simple rhythm of this moment, but I couldn't help but feel something settle inside me. It was the absence of fear--the absence of regret.

Lena called out from behind us, breaking the quiet rhythm of our ride. "Daddy! I'm winning!" she shouted, her voice full of the thrill of being the fastest, of not thinking about anything except the race in her head.

I laughed, picking up my pace slightly as we all neared the turn toward the water's edge. Lena had that same boundless energy I'd always admired. And in that moment, I realized how much of that I had missed--how much of that joy had been absent from my life for so long, simply because I hadn't been willing to let go. But now, here I was. With Lena, with Erin. And it was enough.

We slowed as we reached the lakefront, the water stretching out before us, reflecting the colors of the fading sky. We stopped, all three of us, just before the park's edge. I leaned my bike against the railing, looking out over the water. Erin did the same beside me, her breath steady, her face relaxed. Lena raced ahead, as if the world around her was one endless adventure.

No promises. No speeches. But in this space, in this moment, I knew something I hadn't fully allowed myself to understand. Healing wasn't always about fixing what was broken--it was about finding a new rhythm. It was about riding through the world with the people who mattered most, even if the path wasn't always clear.

"Do you think we can go even faster next time?" Lena asked, her eyes wide, always wanting to push forward, always dreaming of what was ahead.

I smiled, shaking my head. "We'll see," I said, but I could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that she was already planning her next race. And in that moment, I knew that whatever came next for us, whatever obstacles we'd face together, we'd keep moving forward. Together.

Erin looked at me then, her gaze meeting mine, and I could see the same quiet understanding there that had been building between us for the past few months. There were still things unsaid, still pieces of the past that needed to be healed. But for now, this--this was enough.

"Ready to go?" I asked, offering her a smile.

She nodded, and we both turned our bikes back toward the trail. No words. Just the sound of our tires on the path, the feeling of the wind against our faces, and the steady beat of our hearts in time with the world around us.

And for the first time in years, I realized that the road ahead was long, but it didn't have to be ridden alone.

-----------

Together:

We don't talk about "forever."

We talk about tomorrow.

And tonight.

And whether or not the rain will hold off for a ride.

And somehow, that's more than enough.

Because some stories don't need a perfect ending.

They just need to keep going.

In breath.

In motion.

In love.

In cycles.

_________________

Epilogue -

Lena:

Today is my wedding day. I should be nervous, or maybe even overwhelmed, but for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of calm. I'm standing here, in my wedding dress, reading my mom's letter, the one I've read every year since I was twelve. I don't even have to open it anymore. I know the words by heart. "Lena, you are everything I could have hoped for." That's how it starts every year. And every year, I find new meaning in it. Today, as I read her words, I feel like I can finally understand them.

I haven't missed a year since I was twelve. At first, it was because I was too young to understand the gravity of it all. But as I grew older, I realized that reading her letter wasn't just a tradition--it was a way of keeping her with me. I needed to hear her voice, even if it was just in the form of ink on paper. It gave me something to hold onto when I felt lost. And today, when I finish reading, it hits me harder than ever before: my mom is here, in me, in the choices I've made, in the woman I've become.

Growing up, I had Dad and Erin--two people who taught me everything I needed to know about love, patience, and strength. Dad was always there for me, steady and reliable, even when I didn't understand what he was going through. He gave me everything he had, and I never once doubted his love. Erin was different. She wasn't my mom, but she became my mother in the truest sense. She taught me that love doesn't always come from where you expect it. Sometimes it's the people who choose you who end up teaching you more than you ever thought possible. She adopted me when I was fourteen, and from that day forward, I was her daughter--no questions asked, no hesitation.

I think about Stephanie, too. She's my half-sister, and growing up, I never understood how I could feel so much love for her even though we didn't share the same mother. She's sixteen now, and I see so much of Erin in her. I used to think that we could never be as close as I was with Dad or Erin, but over the years, I've realized that family isn't defined by blood. Family is the people who show up for you, the ones who teach you how to live and love. Stephanie and I may not have grown up the same way, but she is my sister, and I love her more than I ever thought possible.

Today, I can't help but think about the lessons my parents taught me. Matt and Erin--no matter how much time passed, how much life changed--always showed me the importance of showing up. They taught me that love isn't about grand gestures or perfection. It's about being there, being steady, and allowing yourself to grow alongside the people you care about. It's about forgiveness, patience, and understanding that we're all doing the best we can.

As I stand here on the edge of this new chapter, I realize how much of who I am comes from them. Erin and Dad didn't try to replace my mom; they simply gave me what they could. I never realized how much I needed that, how much I needed to feel *whole* again after losing her. They gave me a foundation I could stand on, one I could build my future from. They taught me that you don't have to have all the answers right away, but you have to keep moving forward, keep building, and trust that the people around you will be there, just like they were.

I think about Chris, my soon-to-be husband. He's been by my side through the ups and downs of this journey. And in a way, he's like my parents--he shows up. He's steady, but he challenges me too. He makes me laugh when I don't want to smile. And he holds me when I cry. We've built something together that feels like home. And I know, just like Dad and Erin showed me, I can trust him to be there. No matter what comes next.

I look at the mirror one last time before I head down the aisle. I'm no longer that scared, confused girl who had to learn what love meant through loss. I've grown. I've learned. And now, as I prepare to walk down the aisle to Chris, I can say with certainty that I am ready for the life ahead of me. Because I've had the best examples of what it means to love, to build, and to grow. And now, it's my turn to pass those lessons on. To create a future with Chris that feels as steady, as secure, as full of love as the one Dad and Erin gave me.