What We Once Were

Two Years Later The morning light poured through the sheer curtains of Laurel Adeline Stoll’s Manhattan apartment like a gentle but unwelcome visitor. Her alarm clock buzzed beside her, a harsh intrusion against the quiet that had become too familiar. She rolled over, silenced it, looked up and stared at the ceiling. It was Tuesday. Again. She reached instinctively for the second pillow beside her, her hand landing on cool, untouched linen. Empty. Just like the last seven hundred and thirty days. Yes, she had been counting. Sliding out of bed with a practiced groan, Laurel wrapped her robe tighter around her and padded into the kitchen. The floors were cold under her bare feet, but she welcomed the sensation as it gave her something tangible to focus on. She went through the motions: grinding fresh coffee beans, boiling water, opening the fridge. Her hazel eyes moved past the neatly arranged groceries to the little pink lunchbox on the top shelf, smiling to herself. “Renée,” she called softly, “time to wake up.” From the other room came the slow rustling of sheets, then the pitter-patter of small feet. Renée Rae Stoll, eight years old with her father’s sharp chin and her mother’s intense gaze, appeared at the doorway half-dressed and dragging her pink hoodie like a banner of resistance. “You’re late,” Laurel teased as she set a bowl of cereal and a small plate of toast and strawberries on the table. “I’m not late,” Renée countered a little sleepily, yawning as she climbed onto her seat. “You just started early.” “Is that so?” Laurel took a sip of her coffee, watching her daughter stir the cereal like she was conducting a science experiment. She smiled again, softly. “Still want me to braid your hair?” “Yes, but not like yesterday. It got messy at lunch and Emilia said I looked like I fought a boy.” Laurel chuckled, motioning her over. “Let’s fix that. Come here.” As Laurel carefully combed and braided her daughter’s chestnut waves, she caught herself staring at the soft curve of Renée’s cheek, the small dimple that flashed when she smiled, and the sprinkle of freckles that always seemed to deepen in the summer. There were traces of both her and Ryan in every detail. Some days, those features felt like a comfort. Other days, like a wound that wouldn’t close. After breakfast, they bundled up in coats and boots and left for school. The streets of New York buzzed with their usual chaotic rhythm, buses blowing out clouds of steam, taxis honking impatiently, early commuters with coffee in hand and urgency in their step. As Laurel navigated traffic, Renée sat in the backseat, gazing out the window. “Mommy?” Laurel glanced in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, baby?” “Do you think people can fall out of love but still… love each other?” The question hit her like a slap. She blinked, momentarily stunned. “Where did that come from?” Renée shrugged. “TV. I think the mom was sad and the dad looked like he missed her. But they didn’t kiss.” Laurel opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said carefully, “It’s uh… complicated.” “But did it happen to you and Daddy?” Laurel’s stomach twisted. She didn’t want to lie. But she didn’t know how to tell the truth either. Not yet. Not to her. “We both love you very much,” she said gently. “And sometimes love changes. That doesn’t mean it disappears.” Renée seemed to accept that, but the silence between them after hung like a curtain. At the school drop-off, Renée hugged her tightly, then ran enthusiastically toward the gates, her backpack bouncing with each step. Laurel watched her go, then sat in the car for a full minute before pulling away. ----- Laurel’s office was on the twenty-seventh floor of a sleek midtown skyscraper with floor-to-ceiling windows and too many men in navy suits. As a senior finance manager at Hawthorne Capital, she was respected, efficient, and quietly feared. But none of that stopped the pit in her stomach from returning the moment she sat at her desk. She stared at the numbers on her screen but couldn’t bring herself to focus. Not really. The scent of Ryan’s old cologne still lingered in her memory—how it used to cling to the collar of his shirts, the crook of his neck when he’d hug her from behind. She used to bury her face there on stressful days, and he would tease her for being clingy. She hadn’t smelled that cologne in two years. But the memory had a cruel permanence. Her phone buzzed. A text from Ryan. > Ryan: “Can we talk later? Something came up at work. Might need to switch pickups.” > Laurel: “Sure. Everything okay?” > Ryan: “Just a case. I’ll explain later. Promise.” > Laurel: "Alright". Laurel stared at his last message longer than she meant to. The word "promise" caught her off guard. It used to mean something different when he said it. "Stop it", she told herself quietly. Focus. She buried herself in the day’s work, but when her assistant mentioned a last-minute portfolio review meeting at 4:30, she sighed inwardly. That meant she’d be late getting home, late answering Renée’s questions, and even later figuring out whether Ryan would make it on time or whether she’d have to do it all again. ----- Across the city, in a glass office three blocks from Central Park, Ryan Caddel Stoll stood in front of a whiteboard, arms crossed, stance firm. His team of junior attorneys sat around the conference table, flipping through thick legal files with the tired shuffle of people who hadn’t had a real weekend in months. “This is a media minefield,” Ryan said, pointing to the case name scribbled in red. “And if we don’t find the financial tie-ins by Friday, we’re handing the opposing team a win.” He was all sharp lines and commanding presence, six feet of composed precision. But beneath the navy suit, his mind wasn’t entirely in the room. He had dreamed about Laurel last night. Again. It wasn’t erotic or romantic, it was quiet. Like how they had been when they were together. They were lying in bed, reading. Her foot was tucked under his calf the way she always did when she couldn’t sleep. He didn’t remember what she was reading, just that she laughed at something and looked over at him with soft eyes. He woke up with his heart aching. After the meeting, Ryan returned to his office, jaw tense. His father’s name flashed on his phone screen. He let it ring twice before finally answering, reluctantly. “Dad.” “Ryan,” Charles Stoll’s voice boomed through the line, with authority. “You haven’t RSVP’d to the gala. It’s next Thursday.” “I’m not sure I can go.” “Why?” “Work.” “Work can wait.” “Not this kind,” Ryan muttered, swallowing a groan. “Look, I’ll try.” Charles didn’t like that answer. “You know, showing up for your family every once in a while wouldn’t kill you.” Ryan bit his tongue. The irony was laughable. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” He ended the call before the conversation spiraled further. Charles had never approved of his marriage to Laurel. He said she wasn’t ambitious enough, not ‘strategic’ in the ways that mattered. Ryan had stopped listening to his father long ago. But the old man’s disapproval had lingered like smog over every major decision he made especially the divorce. He didn’t talk to anyone about how hard it had been. About the nights he stared at old photos on his phone or reread her emails from before everything turned brittle. He didn’t tell them how he still checked her social media, hoping for a smile that didn’t look tired. No one knew. Not even Laurel. ----- By the time the day had wound down, Ryan sat in his car outside Renée’s ballet studio. He could see her through the large windows, spinning in a pink tutu with uncoordinated enthusiasm. His phone buzzed again. > Laurel: “I can get her if you’re too busy.” > Ryan: “I’m here. Watching now.” > Laurel: “She was really excited to show you her spin.” > Ryan: “She’s getting better.” > Laurel: “You still overthink everything?” > Ryan: “Only always.” A pause. > Laurel: “Thank you for being here.” Ryan stared at her message. It wasn’t overly sentimental. But it was something. > Ryan: “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” It was true. And she knew it.