But sometimes I still think about Eliza. About the way she looked at me.
About how she said, “It’s only fair you know.”
And I wonder… how did she know? What did she know? Maybe she saw too much.
Or maybe she’d once been me, just on a different flight.
Did Jeffrey tell her? Did Maggie contact the airline? Did Daniel?
Was she just another woman who had once sat beside her husband and noticed how quiet he’d become?
Maybe she saw it in the way I flinched when he touched my arm as we took off.
Or the way I glanced at him when he wasn’t looking, like I was already preparing to grieve.
Or maybe she knew that sometimes, heartbreak doesn’t show up with lipstick on a collar. Sometimes it comes in slow waves, unspoken words, turned backs, forgotten Tuesdays.
She gave me a gift. One last shake before I walked away for good.
And instead of betrayal, I found someone still fighting for me.
I sleep lightly now. But not out of fear. I sleep lightly because I’m learning what it feels like to be held again.
To be chosen, again.
And because I don’t want to miss it when the person I love reaches for me in the dark.
The house was quiet. No emails. No ringing phones.
Just the soft hum of the dryer and the sound of my own breath as I sat on the couch with my laptop balanced on my knees.
I typed: “simple vow renewal dresses, elegant but modern.”
A stream of ivory and champagne flooded my screen. Lace sleeves. Silk bodices.
Clean lines. I paused on one, sleek, satin, with a gentle slit and an off-the-shoulder neckline.
Nothing too frilly. Nothing to hide behind.
Just… me.
I saved it to my desktop.
It wasn’t about the dress, not really. It was about remembering who I was before I started fading into the wallpaper. It was about making space for joy.
For affection. For the version of myself who still wanted to be seen.
Jeff walked past me with a cup of tea and a quiet smile.
“You found one?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “I want something that reminds me I’m worth the fuss.”
“You always were.”
I looked down at the photo again and smiled.
This time, the love story wasn’t just about us, it was about coming home to myself, too.
What would you have done?
Source: amomama
