The Love We Lost

Chapter One Five Years Later Amara Dube had spent five years teaching herself to forget the sound of his voice. She’d almost managed it. Almost. Then she came home. It was strange—the whole town seemed smaller now. But maybe it was her who’d changed, not this place. Five years ago, she’d left with two suitcases and a heart that had barely held together. She swore she’d never look back. Now, driving down the old main road, bits and pieces from her old life started tugging at her: the faded blue letters of the cinema sign, the striped awning of the Market Street bakery, the jacarandas stretched even wider over the sidewalk—almost meeting overhead. The clock tower still sat stubbornly in the middle of town, its hands stuck five minutes slow, just like before. She couldn’t help but smile. Some things, it seemed, really didn’t want to move on. She turned down Willow Street and pulled up outside Bell & Bloom, the tiny café that had anchored so many of her college afternoons. She hadn’t planned on coming here. Honestly, she just needed coffee. Or, that’s what she tried to tell herself. Bell & Bloom felt almost untouched by time. Its windows were foggy with warmth, little handwritten signs pressed to the glass inviting people in for fresh cinnamon rolls, local coffee, or just to stay awhile. Flowerpots along the sill spilled over with lavender and other tiny white blooms. The sign above the door had new paint but still sported that same little painted flower. She stepped inside. The bell overhead jingled, and warm air wrapped itself around her. The smell hit her instantly—coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, a hint of rain and wet coats. Soft music drifted from somewhere near the counter. It was busier than she remembered. College kids crowded the long window table, books and laptops scattered around half-empty mugs. Two older women in the corner talked quietly over lemon cake, hidden beneath a shelf of battered old novels. Behind the counter, a young barista swirled milk into a cappuccino. The cream-painted walls were covered in old photos of the town: the train station, the market square, the river swollen in rainy season. In one shot, the main street glowed with Christmas lights. Amara paused, just drinking it all in. For five years, she’d worked hard building a new life in a city where nobody recognized her name. Nobody knew this was home. No one remembered Ethan. Nobody realized that once, Amara had pictured herself marrying him. Home, though—it remembered everything. “Amara?” She turned. Mrs. Patel—Bell & Bloom’s owner—looked at her from behind the counter, eyes wide with surprise that cracked into a huge smile. “My goodness.” Amara managed a small laugh. “Hello.” “You’re back.” It wasn’t a question. She walked closer. “Just for a few days.” Mrs. Patel shook her head. “You said that five years ago.” Amara’s smile faded. Mrs. Patel saw it immediately. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.” Mrs. Patel reached over the counter and squeezed Amara’s hand. “You grew up.” “So did you.” Mrs. Patel laughed. “I was old when you left.” “You were never old.” “Flattery gets you free coffee.” Amara grinned. “I’ll remember that.” She ordered her old favorite—a vanilla latte, just like when she was twenty-one. Mrs. Patel remembered, didn’t even have to check. That rattled Amara, more than she wanted to admit. Coffee in hand, she slipped into a window seat as rain started to fall outside, blurring the world into soft streaks. Cars slid past, their headlights hazy. People hurried along, crowding under umbrellas. She spotted a couple, both squashed under one umbrella, laughing as they dodged puddles. She cupped her drink, letting the heat sink into her fingers, and took a careful sip. For a moment, she felt safe. Then the café door opened. The bell jingled. Amara glanced up. She instantly wished she hadn't. Because there he was—the one person she’d spent five years trying not to remember. Ethan. Her heart kicked and went still. He stood in the doorway, hand on the knob, shoulders wet where rain had soaked through his charcoal shirt. His hair was damp, strands clinging to his forehead. Five years had changed him. Or maybe she’d just forgotten how he looked. His face seemed leaner, sharper, more grown up. There were new lines around his eyes. But his eyes themselves, those were exactly the same. At that, Amara’s breath caught. She stared down into her coffee instead. Don’t look at him. Just don’t. She raised the cup like a shield. Her hand trembled a little. The latte tasted of nothing. She heard the door shut behind him. Footsteps. One, two, three. Silence. He was looking at her. She didn’t have to check—she could feel it. Once, she’d known little details about Ethan nobody else did. His favorite songs, how he liked his coffee, the way thunderstorms secretly scared him, how he rubbed his neck when he was nervous, how his voice dropped lower whenever he really meant something. She’d known everything—until the night she realized she didn’t. “Amara?” The world froze. She hadn’t heard that voice in five years. Well, five years, three months, and eleven days. Not that she’d been counting, of course. Or so she told herself. Slowly, Amara dragged her eyes up. Ethan was staring right at her. He hadn’t moved. Neither had she. The café kept bustling—spoons tapping, the espresso machine hissing, laughter from the window table, rain whispering at the panes—but all that noise faded to nothing. All she could hear was an old promise: I’ll choose you every single time. Once upon a time, she’d believed him. “Hi,” she managed, barely above a whisper. It sounded like the weakest word she’d ever said. Ethan’s face shifted—something flickered there, maybe surprise, or pain, or even relief. “Hi.” His voice was deeper now. She hated how much she noticed that. Hated how her mind dragged her back to old, late nights, remembering exactly how he’d sounded when they talked about their future. Their future. She shoved that thought aside. Ethan stepped closer. Amara’s hands locked around her cup. “What are you doing here?” he asked. It was a simple question, but the answer knotted inside her. “I live here.” She blurted it without thinking. His eyebrows went up. “You live here?” “No.” She swallowed. “I mean… I’m just visiting.” “Right.” Silence stretched between them. Amara fixed her eyes on the window. Rain painted watery streaks over the view. She’d come back for one reason: her mother’s birthday. Three days—maybe four, tops. She had everything set—hotel, rental car, dinner plans, enough of an exit strategy in case anyone tried to convince her to stay. She hadn’t planned for Ethan. She sure hadn’t planned to see him walk through the door at Bell & Bloom, of all places. This was their place—so many afternoons tangled up with him here. He once stole cinnamon from her plate, she once dozed off against his shoulder while he drafted architecture plans, their first real kiss after graduation. Bell & Bloom had seen their beginning, and now it was seeing this: whatever this was. “You look good,” he said softly. Amara almost laughed. Good? After all this time? But she just nodded. “So do you.” He gave a small smile, careful and muted. Not like the old Ethan. He’d smiled with his whole face. Now, he just seemed guarded—someone who’d learned the hard way that happiness could hurt. “So… what brings you back?” “My mom’s birthday.” “Tomorrow?” “Yes.” “I remember.” Her head snapped up. “You remember?” “I remember a lot of things.” That hit her harder than she wanted. Amara looked away. “Ethan—” “Amara.” He cut in. Both stopped. He’d said her name gently. Not accusing, not angry. Just her name. Somehow that was even worse. Because she remembered exactly how he used to say it when it was just the two of them. Amara. Like it was something precious. She stood suddenly. “I should go.” His face dipped. “Already?” “I have somewhere to be.” “You just got here.” “I know.” She grabbed her bag, knuckles white. She hated how badly her hands shook. She’d spent five years turning herself into someone who didn’t shake, didn’t cry, didn’t look back. Now, just standing near Ethan, she felt like the girl who’d once loved him so much that losing him had split her in two. She shoved her chair back. “Amara.” She went still. “Why did you come back?” She didn’t turn—not with his real question hanging unspoken in the air. Why did you leave? She squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly, her memory cracked open. She was back in that bedroom: the phone, a message with Victoria’s name on it, Ethan’s silence, her own tears, the suitcase she packed with shaking hands—Ethan begging her not to go. Please, Amara. Just listen to me. She hadn’t. She’d left. Five years later, she still wasn’t sure if that was her boldest move or the worst mistake she ever made. “I came back for my mom,” she said quietly. She walked out, the bell chiming behind her. Outside, the rain was colder. She breathed in—once, twice, then hurried to her car. She was almost there when she heard him behind her. “Amara!” She stopped. Didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel him there. “I’m not asking you to stay,” he said. Her eyes stung. “Good.” “I just want to know one thing.” She turned. He stood a few steps away, rain soaking his hair, water slipping down his shoulders. “What?” He held her gaze, eyes steady. “Did you ever regret leaving?” Amara forgot how to breathe. The truth was right there, aching to get out. Every day. But she wouldn’t give him that—at least not yet. So she smiled, sharp around the edges. “No.” The lie just lingered, heavy between them. Ethan studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He turned for the café. Amara watched him go, and only when the door closed behind him did the tears finally come. She wiped them away, annoyed with herself. “This is why I left,” she muttered. But deep down, even now, she knew better. She hadn’t left because she stopped loving Ethan. She left because she loved him too much. And five years later, standing here in the rain on a street that still carried their ghosts, Amara finally faced it: she still did.