The living room was transformed, filled with bright balloons in shades of red, white, and gold, floating lazily in the air. The kind of thing you’d expect in a romantic movie, not in a house full of painful memories. A table was set for two, candles flickering softly on the white tablecloth, casting long shadows across the room.
And then I saw him.
Cross stood there, a guitar in his hands, dressed sharply in a suit, looking like something out of a dream. But none of it made sense. Why? What was he doing?
Before I could process it all, he began to play. His fingers moved effortlessly across the strings, and the soft notes filled the room. The moment the first few chords hit my ears, my heart lurched painfully. It was our song. The one we had shared when things felt right, when I thought
