Chapter 16
524 Words
Six months.
One hundred and eighty-two days.
Thousands of words written. Pages turned. Cafés visited. Nights spent under the Parisian sky with pen-stained fingers and a heart slowly learning to beat to her own rhythm.
Fiona had never felt more herself.
And yet…
Every poem she wrote carried his name in the margins.
Every sunset reminded her of the way Jared used to brush her braids off her shoulder when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Every train station reminded her someone was waiting.
She had sent postcards.
He had sent playlists.
She wrote him poems.
He replied with photos of the books she left on his shelf, still in the same spot.
They didn’t talk every day—but when they did, it felt like the world paused.
And yet, toward the end, a question sat quietly in the back of her mind.
What if he’s changed? What if I have?
---
The plane touched down at dusk.
Her hair was longer now, her skin darker from the sun, her voice a little stronger. She stepped off the flight with nothing but a backpack and a heart that beat with terrifying clarity.
She didn’t tell him she was coming home early.
She needed to see what waited.
---
The bookstore smelled exactly the same—old pages, wood polish, and a hint of rain.
It was their place.
She pushed open the door and walked in slowly.
And there he was.
Sitting on the floor between aisles, back against the poetry section, reading a copy of Letters to a Young Poet. His hoodie was too big. His hair was longer. And he looked up as if he knew.
His eyes widened.
He didn’t stand immediately.
He just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered, “You came back.”
“I told you I would,” she replied.
“But… why today?”
Fiona set her bag down and stepped toward him.
“Because today I realized something,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t just fall in love with you,” she said, kneeling down. “I grew in love with you. And if love can grow… it can keep growing.”
He reached out, fingers brushing hers.
“And I still want to grow with you.”
He pulled her into a hug that felt like coming home.
No fireworks.
No dramatic music.
Just steady, quiet, unshakable love.
---
They sat there for hours, knees touching, sharing stories of everything and nothing.
She told him about a writer she met in Montmartre who wrote poetry in chalk on sidewalks.
He told her about how her brother still teased him, and how their spot at the bridge had started growing wildflowers.
“Funny,” Fiona said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You and I… we were never meant to be simple.”
“No,” Jared whispered. “We were meant to be worth it.”
---
Outside, the rain began to fall.
And inside, surrounded by the scent of stories, they began a new one.
Together.
Not after him.
Not instead of someone else.
Just… love.
- Writer
