Callum stared at Laurina’s letter, her elegant handwriting swimming before his eyes. The question she posed hit him with unexpected force, leaving him momentarily unmoored,
Did he have feelings for Cassie?
Real feelings–not the calculated affection he’d convinced himself was enough?
He sank into the hospital chair, the letter trembling in his hands as memories began surfacing unbidden.
Three years together. Two as husband and wife. A thousand daily rituals that had woven themselves into the fabric of his existence so seamlessly he’d failed to recognize their importance until their absence left gaping holes.
They’d developed the intimate shorthand that only comes with genuine connection. He knew Cassie maintained a carefully constructed tough exterior that dissolved the moment they were alone. He knew she couldn’t sleep in complete darkness–some childhood fear she’d never quite outgrown. He knew she loved almost all seafood but would discreetly push shrimp to the edge of her plate.
He could read her body language like a familiar book–the slight head tilt when she was skeptical but too polite to say so, the way she absently twirled her hair when deep in thought. How many times had he deliberately ignored these signals when he lacked the emotional bandwidth to engage? Yet Cassie had never once complained. Instead, she’d silently prepare his favorite nightcap, draw his bath to the precise temperature he preferred, massage his shoulders until the tension melted away.
Those days had evaporated so quickly, like morning dew under a rising sun.
His proposal flickered into focus–a memory he hadn’t examined in years. It had been dreary and overcast, sporadic rain threatening to ruin his elaborate rooftop plans. He’d seriously considered postponing, worried the weather would spoil the moment he’d orchestrated.
But then Cassie had discovered his setup prematurely–fairy lights strung across potted plants, champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Her entire face had transformed instantly, lighting up from within. Her unrestrained delight–over such simple things–had thrilled him in ways he couldn’t articulate.
She hadn’t even been dressed for the occasion, wearing faded jeans and one of his old sweatshirts, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup, no pretense.
Later, she’d teasingly complained about having no warning, but had still thrown her arms around his neck, whispering “Yes” against his ear before he’d even dropped to one knee.
He’d lifted her off her feet, spinning her around as raindrops began falling more heavily around them caring they were getting soaked.
in, neither of
They’d rented bicyeles afterward, racing across the Brooklyn Bridge, shouting into the wind about their future together–declarations of joy that seemed so genuine in that moment.
The memories kept coming, each more vivid than the last.
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Addio To The Stand–In Past, This Time I Chose To Reclaim My Own Life
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Their wedding preparations–playful arguments over color schemes and venue details. Evenings spent assembling IKEA furniture, dissolving into laughter when they inevitably had pieces left over
Cassie learning to cook his favorite childhood dishes through sheer determination, her initially over salted attempts gradually improving with practice and Youtube tutorials. How she’d taken his parents to farmers marksson weekends, even convincing his perpetually stressed father to try Thai massage when his back pain flared up.
She’d approached everything with that same radiant smile, as if happiness was a deliberate choice she renewed each morning
The memories crashed over him now like relentless waves–each recollection triggering another, then another.
Cassie’s childlike delight over cotton candy at Coney Island. Cassie’s playful pout when he teased her too far. The barely perceptible tremble of her lower lip when genuinely hurt. The way her eyes always sought his across crowded rooms, looking for the reassurance he’d grown too complacent to provide.
So many versions of her, all intimately familiar, all suddenly, devastatingly absent from his life.
The realization struck with physical force–the hollow sensation that had plagued him wasn’t mere disorientation or wounded pride. It was genuine grief. He missed her. Not as a convenient stand–in for someone else, but as herself the woman who had quietly, persistently carved out space in his heart while he pretended to remain untouched.
His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone, suddenly possessed by a single urgent purpose.
“Matt,” he said the moment his assistant answered, “book me on the next flight to Rome. Tonight. First class, economy, private charter–I don’t care. Just get me there.”
His mind crystallized around three absolute certainties:
He needed to apologize–not just for his actions, but for his fundamental failure to recognize what had been in front
of him all along.
He needed to confess the truth–that somewhere along the way, without his permission or awareness, he had fallen completely in love with her.
He needed to bring Cassie home–or failing that, make a new home wherever she was.
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