The cursor blinked.
And blinked.
And blinked.
Amy stared at the screen like it might give her the words she couldn't find. Her fingers hovered over the keys, frozen mid-thought, mid-scene, mid-life. The document was still titled Untitled Draft 2, and the paragraph she'd written two nights ago sat there like it was mocking her:
___ "She loved him. God, she wished she didn't."
She'd meant it as fiction. Just fiction. But it bled too close to the bone.
She had given the previous book a break,the one she told Mrs Thompson about.....the one Jace was excited to see,she just knew she'd most likely ruin it because of her emotions.
Amy sighed and backspaced the line. The blank screen stared back, unforgiving and utterly empty.
She stood up, paced to the window, then back to her small desk. Her coffee had gone cold. Her blanket kept slipping off her shoulders, and her apartment....her safe little apartment....felt too quiet again.
She rubbed her forehead, then sat down and tried again.
____ "Maybe some stories don't have an ending. Maybe they just... pause. And the characters drift until someone decides to write them back into place."
Nope.
She groaned and slammed the laptop shut, pressing her fingers to her temple like she could rub the ache away.
"Get a grip, Ames," she whispered to herself. "You've written through worse."
But she hadn't. Not like this.
Because nothing else had ever hurt this much. Nothing else had ever felt this close to real loss.
She looked around the room for something to anchor her. The bookshelves. The faint hum of the fridge. The fading scent of the lavender candle she'd burned earlier. But nothing could.
Until....
A knock.
She froze. Slowly looked toward the door. Her breath caught in her throat.
Her heart began to pound, annoyed at itself, at this whole mess.
She stood, smoothing her sweatshirt, tugging her hair into some kind of order. The knock came again...quieter this time, like the person wasn't sure if they should be there.
And still, her feet moved.
Toward the door.
She placed her hand on the doorknob.
Paused.
Breathed.
And then opened it.
Amy wasn't expecting him.
When she opened the door and saw Jace standing there, the air between them shifted.....like the universe had decided to hold its breath. In his hand, cradled almost nervously, was a bouquet of tulips. Her favorite. Pale pink and white, still fresh, delicate. The kind of gesture that would've made her heart flutter once.
His eyes tired, but filled with a hope she wasn't sure she could carry anymore....met hers, and for a second, neither of them spoke.
He looked awful. Hair a bit messy, shirt wrinkled, like sleep hadn't found him in days.
"Amy," his voice cracked slightly, like even saying her name was dangerous. "These... they're for you."
She stared at the tulips for a beat too long before gently reaching out to take them. Not because she forgave him. But because some part of her still remembered how it used to feel.
"Thank you," she said, softly. Then, after a pause, she stepped aside for him to come in.
He stepped inside, but the space between them felt more like miles. The apartment smelled faintly of the lemon-scented cleaner she'd used the day before, and the silence was the kind that weighed too much on the chest.
Jace paced once, hand pushing through his hair. The tulips trembled in her grasp.
"I'm sorry," he began. His voice was rough, not with defense but with guilt. "I know that's not enough. Nothing I say is enough. But you need to hear it anyway. I should've told you about Gina. I should've made it clear there was nothing between us. I should've protected what we have."
Amy didn't flinch. She listened, arms folded, heart guarded. His words were soft, desperate but careful, like he was afraid one wrong note would shatter her.
"I forgive you."
Her words came out before she even realized she'd say them. And they shook the room.
Jace's breath hitched. His shoulders sagged like someone had just untied the weight from around his neck.
"God, Ames…" He took a step forward, reaching for her. "Thank you. I..." But as his arms reached, she stepped back.
The tulips remained between them, an ironic symbol of peace in a war neither had prepared for.
"I forgive you, Jace," she said, eyes shining not with tears, but with something firmer. Stronger. "But I'm not coming back. Not right now."
His brows knit in confusion. "But… you forgive me."
"I do," she said, voice quiet but unwavering. "But forgiveness doesn't mean everything's okay again. And it doesn't mean I'm ready to stay."
Her words broke something in him. You could see it. The way he looked down. The way he fidgeted, unsure of where to place his hands or his pain.
"Gina said something," Amy added. "Something I haven't been able to get out of my head."
He opened his mouth to talk but she spoke almost immediately.
"Not about her. About me. About us. What if she's right? What if I'm just another girl in your story? What if I was never meant to stay?"
"That's not fair..."
"It's not about fair," she interrupted, her voice rising. "It's about how it made me feel. I need space, Jace. To figure out if this is love… or just me trying to fit into your world."
She hugged the tulips tighter, not even realizing the petals were being slightly crushed. "I don't want to be someone who fades into your past. And I don't want to wake up someday wondering if I was ever enough to be part of your future."
His voice was hoarse. "Gina twisted everything.....You are enough."
"Then let me find my way back to you. If that's what I want."
He stood, frozen. Torn between fighting and respecting her wish. Torn between the man he used to be, and the man she needed him to become.
"I love you," he finally said, voice raw.
"I know," she whispered. "But I need to love me, too."
She walked to the door. Not to slam it. Not to shut him out. But to open it, for now, so she could breathe again.
"I don't hate you," she added. "But I need time to figure out if we're really right... or if we were just right for a season."
Jace looked at her, memorizing every inch of her face like he was scared he'd never see it again.
His fingers grazed hers as he walked past. Just a brush. A goodbye and a promise.
"I'll wait," he said, standing in the hallway, his voice low and unshaken. "For as long as it takes."
Amy looked at him for the last time and then closed the door and locked it. Her hand lingered on the knob.
Then she looked down at the tulips. Their petals soft and trembling.
She carried them to the kitchen, filled a vase with water, and placed them gently on the windowsill.
Then she cried.
Not the kind that splits your soul open.
The kind that says... I chose myself today.
....
Jace didn't remember the drive home.
The city blurred past the windshield in shades of gray and gold, headlights flashing like ghosts in motion. His hands gripped the wheel but his mind was still back there at Amy's door, at the moment she forgave him and still let him go.
Forgiveness had never felt so painful.
When he stepped into his apartment, everything felt off. The air, the silence, the dim light filtering through the curtains. It smelled like her.....books, vanilla, lavender, a little cinnamon from the tea she always brought over. But it was just a memory now.
He tossed his keys onto the counter and stood in the center of the room like a man who had just come back from war and no longer recognized his home.
Jace ran a hand down his face, then slowly walked toward the couch. That was where she'd curled into him during their movie nights. Where they laughed, kissed, argued about things that were inarguable, made up. Where she once fell asleep mid-sentence because she was so tired from working at the bookstore, and he hadn't moved for hours just to let her rest on his shoulder.
He sat down, sinking into the cushion like it still held her shape. His hand reached for the remote but stopped. What was the point?
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like a prayer.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," his subconscious mind whispered.
The silence didn't answer. It only echoed.
He stood abruptly, agitated, pacing. Then stopped in front of the wall that held the photographs. Their photographs. One of Amy on the bridge in Central Park, her laughter caught in the wind. One of her sitting cross-legged on his bed, flipping through his sketchbook, unaware he was watching.
He stared at them for a long time, until the blur of something that felt like tears made it impossible to see anything clearly.
With a quiet curse, Jace turned away and walked to his bedroom. Stripped off his jacket, his shoes. But instead of crawling into bed, he grabbed a pillow and blanket and went back to the couch.
Lying there in the dark, he stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe.
He could still hear her voice in his ears.
"I need to love me too."
He understood. God, he did. But understanding didn't make the ache easier. It didn't fill the space beside him. It didn't quiet the way his heart felt like it was beating inside out.
So he whispered into the stillness of the room, hoping somehow the words might reach her across the silence.
"I'm still yours, Ames. Even if you need time. Even if you don't come back."
And then he closed his eyes, letting the ache settle deeper in his chest like it had moved in to stay.