I kept my hand on the door handle.
My heart was beating so hard I could hear it.
“Paula?”
Adrian’s voice came again.
“I know you’re there.”
I closed my eyes.
For four months, I had imagined this moment.
Sometimes I imagined him apologizing.
Sometimes I imagined myself screaming.
Sometimes I imagined opening the door and throwing the flowers back in his face.
But I had never imagined this.
Because I had never imagined him actually finding me.
I looked through the peephole.
He was standing alone in the hallway.
Dark jacket.
Messy hair.
No flowers.
No smile.
No confidence.
He looked tired.
Older somehow.
I stepped away from the door.
I didn’t open it.
“Paula, please.”
I said nothing.
“I know you’re angry.”
Still nothing.
“I know I don’t deserve to be here.”
That almost made me laugh.
Almost.
He continued.
“But I need you to hear me.”
I looked at the floor.
Four months ago, those words would have been enough.
I would have opened the door.
I would have listened.
I would have cried.
I would have forgiven.
And somehow, by the end of the night, I would have been apologizing for making him feel guilty.
Not this time.
“Go home, Adrian.”
My voice sounded strange.
Calm.
He went silent.
“You heard me?”
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
“I can’t.”
My jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I spent three years thinking you would always be there.”
I stared at the door.
“And now you’re not.”
There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before.
Not anger.
Not arrogance.
Fear.
“I thought you’d call on my birthday,” he said.
I almost smiled.
“You thought correctly.”
He went quiet.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I leaned my forehead against the door.
“Because you told everyone I would.”
Silence.
“You made my return a joke, Adrian.”
“I know.”
“No. You know the sentence. You don’t know what it felt like.”
“I probably never will.”
That answer stopped me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said:
“I deleted the photo.”
“I know.”
“I ended things with Sophia.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“People talk.”
He exhaled.
“I thought you’d care.”
I looked at the door.
“I cared.”
He didn’t answer.
“I cared a lot,” I continued. “That’s why I left.”
His voice became quieter.
“Do you hate me?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
The silence afterward was heavier than if I had said yes.
“Then why won’t you open the door?”
“Because not hating you doesn’t mean I want you back.”
He breathed out slowly.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I am trying.”
I looked around my apartment.
The cheap lamp.
The crooked curtains.
The bed Matthew had helped assemble.
The two plates in the kitchen.
Everything I owned fit inside a space Adrian had never seen.
And somehow, it was the first place in years where I felt completely safe.
“I don’t want to talk to you tonight,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”
His footsteps didn’t move.
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Then five.
Finally, I heard him walk away.
I waited until the sound disappeared down the stairs.
Only then did I open the door.
The hallway was empty.
But there was something on the floor.
A small envelope.
My name was written across it.
Paula.
I picked it up.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I took it inside.
I sat at the table.
The envelope was heavier than it looked.
Inside was a photograph.
Not of Adrian.
Not of Sophia.
It was a picture of us.
Three years ago.
We were sitting on the floor of our first apartment.
I was laughing.
Adrian had his arm around my shoulders.
We looked happy.
Behind the photograph, he had written:
“I finally found the picture that made me believe I could be a better man.”
I turned it over.
There was another sentence.
“I was wrong about one thing.”
I stared at it.
“Becoming better was never your responsibility.”
My eyes filled with tears.
I hated that he could still do that.
Not make me want him.
Make me remember him.
There was a knock at my door.
I jumped.
This time, I knew who it was.
“Paula?”
Matthew.
I wiped my eyes.
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“That sounded like a no.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want tea?”
I looked at the photograph in my hand.
“Yes.”
“Coming over.”
A few minutes later, there was another knock.
I opened the door.
Matthew stood there holding two cups.
He looked at my face.
Then at the envelope.
He didn’t ask.
He handed me one of the cups.
“Chamomile.”
“How did you know?”
“You look like someone who needs chamomile.”
I laughed softly.
He smiled.
Then he noticed the photograph.
“Bad news?”
“Old news.”
He nodded.
“Sometimes old news hurts more.”
I looked at him.
“Adrian was here.”
Matthew’s expression didn’t change.
“Okay.”
“He found me.”
“Okay.”
“He wants to talk.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have to.”
It was so simple.
I looked down at my tea.
“Why doesn’t everything have to be complicated with you?”
Matthew shrugged.
“Maybe because I don’t benefit from making it complicated.”
I smiled.
Then he asked:
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He took a sip of tea.
“Did he make you feel unsafe?”
I hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
Matthew nodded.
“If that changes, knock on my door.”
“You’re not going to ask what he said?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if you want to tell me, you’ll tell me.”
I looked at him.
And suddenly, something inside me loosened.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Trust.
Something I had forgotten could exist without being demanded.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“You’re welcome.”
He stood to leave.
At the door, he turned.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Eleanor says you’re officially invited to the building barbecue Saturday.”
I stared at him.
“I’ve never met Mrs. Eleanor.”
“She doesn’t care.”
“What if I say no?”
“She’ll invite you again.”
“What if I say no again?”
“She’ll bring food upstairs.”
I laughed.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
He smiled and left.
I closed the door.
For the first time that night, I laughed without forcing it.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
And I realized something.
Adrian had come all the way to my new city because he finally understood that I was gone.
But he still didn’t understand the most important part.
I hadn’t left because I wanted him to chase me.
I hadn’t changed my number so he’d panic.
I hadn’t resigned so he’d realize my value.
I hadn’t boarded that train so he’d miss me.
I had done all of it because I finally understood my own value.
And that was something he could never give me.
The next morning, I went to work.
At 10:14, Sarah called.
“Paula.”
“What?”
“Something happened.”
I stopped typing.
“What?”
“Adrian went back to the old office.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want?”
Sarah hesitated.
“Your boss gave him something.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Your resignation documents.”
I frowned.
“Why would my boss give him anything?”
“He didn’t give him anything confidential.”
“Then what?”
Sarah lowered her voice.
“He gave him a copy of your old project.”
I didn’t understand.
“What project?”
“The one you worked on for six months.”
My fingers went cold.
“What about it?”
“Adrian said the project wasn’t yours.”
I sat back in my chair.
“What?”
“He told your old boss that you took credit for work he helped you create.”
I stared at the computer screen.
It wasn’t true.
Not even close.
But then Sarah said something that made my chest tighten.
“Your old boss didn’t believe him.”
“Good.”
“No, Paula.”
Her voice changed.
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“He said he has emails.”
I stopped breathing.
“What emails?”
“Emails between you and him.”
I closed my eyes.
Three years of messages.
Three years of files.
Three years of conversations.
Three years of a life that I had thought was private.
Sarah whispered:
“Paula, I think he’s trying to destroy your career.”
I looked at the photograph sitting beside my computer.
The smiling version of Adrian.
The man I once thought was my home.
Then I remembered his last words at my door.
I didn’t come here to ask you to come back.
I came because I finally understand why you left.
Maybe that had been a lie.
Maybe the man standing outside my door wasn’t there because he had changed.
Maybe he had simply realized that he had lost control.
And if that was true…
Then disappearing wasn’t enough anymore.
This time, I would have to fight back.
CONTINUE READING NEXT PART
