The Love We Lost

Old Wounds

Chapter Three

Old Wounds

Amara woke before the sun.

For a moment, she couldn’t figure out where she was. Strange ceiling. Gray curtains. Somewhere outside, a car rolled down a wet road.

And then it all flooded back—the town, her mother’s birthday, Bell & Bloom, Ethan.

She shut her eyes.

“No.”

The word just slipped out.

She turned over, wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Fat lot of good that did; closing her eyes only made Ethan’s face sharper in her mind. The look he'd given her. That stuck note in his voice. Rain in his hair and that question hanging between them.

Did you ever regret leaving?

She'd answered too fast.

No.

That had come out before she even thought. Reflex, like flinching from a hot stove.

But now, lying there in that pale gray morning, she couldn't stop asking herself why she’d lied.

If she’d really moved on, she wouldn’t have even had to think.

No.

Simple. No regret. She’d made her choice. She’d walked away from the man who betrayed her. That was the story she’d clung to for five years—it was how she'd gotten through the nights.

Yesterday, though, seeing Ethan’s eyes for the first time in all that time, something inside her whispered: You never knew the whole story.

Amara sat up, rubbed her face hard.

“Stop.”

Her voice sounded tiny in the empty room.

She’d spent years piecing herself back together. Career, friends, routines. Learning how to walk into a room without bracing for him. She could hear someone say “Ethan” and not feel like the floor would fall out from under her.

And one afternoon had wrecked all that.

She checked her phone. No new messages.

She stared at the blank screen. Flipped it over.

Relief washed over her—and disappointment too, which she hated herself for.

---

By the time she parked in front of her mom’s house, the town was waking up.

Sunlight swept over the streets, making yesterday’s puddles sparkle. The bakery had its doors propped open, sending the smell of bread floating on the breeze. Students spilled off a bus, laughing, while an old man cleared the sidewalk outside the bookstore.

Everything felt so ordinary.

That bothered her. Her world had tipped sideways yesterday, yet the town didn’t miss a beat.

She drove past the park and, without meaning to, found herself looking at an old wooden bench.

Their bench.

She slowed down. Five years ago, Ethan had pulled out his pocketknife and carved two sets of initials under it.

A.D.

E.W.

Probably still there, faint and scarred. She wondered if he ever came back to look at them.

Did he sit there after I left? The thought stung, so she shoved it away quick.

She didn’t deserve to wonder, not after the way she’d left.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter.

Because the ugly truth she tried not to face was that she hadn’t just ended things—she’d vanished. Changed her number. Blocked him everywhere. Refused his calls. She hadn’t wanted to hear any explanations.

At the time, she’d told herself she had to do it. She’d been angry. Hurt. Humiliated.

But late at night, sometimes, a voice in her head would ask the question she never wanted to answer:

What if he was telling the truth?

She hated that voice. Hated it more than anything.

---

Her mother’s door was already cracked open.

“You’re late,” her mom called out.

Amara tried to smile. “Good morning to you too.”

Her mother pulled her into a hug. “You’re too thin.”

“Mom.”

“You are.”

“I eat.”

“Coffee doesn’t count.”

It made Amara laugh. Just for a second, everything felt like old times.

Then her mom’s gaze sharpened. “You saw him.”

Amara’s smile faded. “Yeah.”

Her mother didn’t ask who.

“Ethan?” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“How did he look?”

Amara glanced away. “Older.”

A sad smile. “So do you.”

She sat at the kitchen table. Her mom put a plate of pancakes in front of her—cinnamon, thick and sweet.

For a second Amara tasted all those old mornings, Ethan stealing pancakes right off her plate. She pushed the thought away, but her appetite vanished.

Her mother saw it. “You don’t have to talk about him.”

“Good,” Amara muttered.

A pause. “But you should.”

Amara looked up. “Why?”

“Because you’re still carrying it.”

“I’ve moved on.”

Soft look. “Have you?”

She wanted to lie, but stared down at the pancakes instead.

Her mom joined her, sitting close. “You don’t owe me any defense.”

“I know.”

“You were hurt.”

“I know.”

“You believed what you saw.”

Amara’s throat felt thick. “I did.”

Her mom waited.

Then Amara’s words barely came out. “But what if I shouldn’t have?”

Her mom didn’t answer right away. Somehow, that silence hurt worst of all.

Amara swallowed, voice trembling. “What if I was wrong?”

Her mom reached out, squeezed her hand. “You were young.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean I was right.”

“No.”

Amara looked down at their hands. “I never let him explain.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers. “No.”

“I wouldn’t even listen.”

“No.”

“I just left.” She couldn’t stop now. “I left him standing there.”

Her mom said nothing.

Eyes squeezed shut, Amara saw Ethan again—on that doorstep, pale, red-eyed, reaching for her.

Amara, please.

She’d pulled away. She’d thought protecting her heart was the only option.

Now she wondered if all she did was shatter his.

“I was so angry,” she whispered.

“You had every reason.”

“But what if I misunderstood?”

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Then you’ll need courage to face whatever’s real.”

Amara looked up. “What if the truth is I destroyed something that could have been saved?”

No answer this time.

Because what could anyone say?

---

Maya showed up after lunch, flowers in one arm, birthday cake in the other.

She burst in smiling, but the smile faded as soon as she saw Amara.

“You look terrible.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “Hello to you too.”

Maya put the cake down. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

They hugged, and it somehow helped. Maya had seen Amara through the worst—breakups, moving, those dry-eyed nights that hurt even more than crying. She knew things nobody else did.

Which was why Amara noticed right away when Maya got cagey.

“You okay?”

Maya tried to look casual. “Fine.”

Amara frowned. “Terrible liar.”

Maya gave a little laugh. “So are you.”

That shut them both up.

Finally Amara asked, “Did you talk to Ethan?”

A hesitation. “No.”

“Did you know he’d be at Bell & Bloom?”

“No.”

“Do you really think he cheated on me?”

Maya went rigid.

It was enough. Amara’s stomach twisted.

“Maya—”

“I don’t know.”

How could she not know? “You don’t know?”

Maya wouldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it wasn’t complicated five years ago.”

Maya turned on her. “You found messages.”

“Yes.”

“Pictures.”

“Yes.”

“You confronted him. And you left.”

“Yes.”

Maya swallowed. “But you never heard his side.”

Something deep inside Amara cracked. “I didn’t have to.”

Maya’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“I saw the messages.”

“What did you actually see?”

Amara started to answer, then stopped.

That photograph. Ethan next to Victoria. His hand on her waist. Victoria's name in his messages—the words seared into memory. She’d told herself it was clear, undeniable.

Except, the longer Maya stood there, the less certain she felt.

“What exactly did you see?” Maya asked, softer now.

Amara couldn't answer.

Because now she realized she’d never actually witnessed Ethan cheating.

She’d seen evidence. Assumed the rest. Believed her own pain.

But she’d never, not once, seen it happen.

Her heart thudded in her ears.

Maya looked down, guilt written all over her.

“Amara—”

“You’re keeping something from me.”

“I don’t know everything,” Maya said.

“But you know something.”

Maya’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “It’s been five years.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

Amara felt cold all over. “From what?”

Maya's voice broke. “From finding out you might’ve been wrong.”

The world went still.

“What?”

Maya shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No.” Amara stood up, voice shaky but fierce. “You can’t just say that and leave.”

“I can’t—”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

Maya looked at her. “Of what happens if you find the truth.”

Amara’s heart pounded in her chest. “Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s not my secret.”

Amara stared.

“Whose is it?”

No answer. But now Amara felt it—a flicker of certainty.

Ethan.

---

That night, Amara went back to the hotel.

She couldn’t remember driving there. Couldn’t remember parking, walking through the lobby. All she could think about was Maya’s face and the words—

Maybe you were wrong.

They echoed through her mind, following her into the room.

She dropped her bag, sat on the bed.

Five years, she’d repeated the same story: Ethan betrayed me. I protected myself. I healed.

Simple.

But now, nothing seemed simple.

She dug in her handbag. At the bottom, folded and creased, was the old photograph—Ethan beside Victoria.

She’d looked at it so many times. But tonight she really studied it.

Not the people, but everything else.

The background. The date. Where it was taken.

For the first time, she noticed it.

She stopped breathing and grabbed her phone, typing in the date.

Then she froze.

The picture was taken two days before Ethan told her he was somewhere else.

Two days. Two missing days.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was coincidence and she was just desperate for another explanation.

She hated the part of herself that wanted Ethan to be innocent.

Because if he was—if he truly hadn’t done what she thought—then everything that came after was her doing.

She would have to face the truth of who she’d been: the girl who didn’t listen, the woman who’d spent five years blaming him for something she didn’t fully understand.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She stared at the screen, dread pooling in her stomach.

You deserve to know what really happened five years ago.

She couldn’t breathe.

Another text.

Ask Maya.

She called Maya. Straight to voicemail. Called again. Nothing.

Her hands shook.

A third text.

Not everything Ethan told you was a lie.

The room seemed to shift, grow smaller.

She looked at the photograph, fingers trembling.

For five years she’d thought this was the proof—the moment it all broke.

Now she didn't know what it was.

A betrayal?

A misunderstanding?

A lie?

Or maybe the beginning of the biggest mistake she’d ever made?

Tears filled her eyes.

This time, she let herself say it.

“I should have listened.”

The confession burned.

Because underneath that guilt was something worse—something she didn't want to feel.

Hope.

A fragile, crackling hope that maybe, just maybe, Ethan hadn’t done what she believed.

And suddenly Amara didn’t know which was more terrifying:

That she’d been wrong all along,

or that she might still love the man she’d tried so hard to forget.

She stared through the dark window.

Somewhere, Ethan was out there—maybe hating her, maybe forgiving her, maybe not thinking of her at all.

She pressed the photograph to her chest.

And another thought slid in.

What if he never stopped loving me, either?

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time, she felt the weight of her choice, heavy and unmovable.

She hadn’t just lost Ethan. She had chosen to lose him.

And if the truth was different than the story she clung to all these years, she was left with only one question:

How do you ask forgiveness from the person whose heart you broke… when you did it to save your own?