I heard a soft rustle outside the door, then his footsteps retreating down the hallway. After waiting until I was sure he was gone, I crept to the door and opened it just enough to see what he'd left.
There on the floor, sat a small package wrapped in tissue paper with a note attached. I brought it inside, settling on my bed before carefully unfolding the note.
My lips curled up in a smile as I read a note similar to Julian’s, but with caring words and telling me he hoped we could try backing together again. I unwrapped the tissue paper to find a small, smooth stone polished to a gentle sheen. It was a deep blue-green color, like the ocean on a clear day, with subtle gold streaks running through it. The stone fit perfectly in my palm, its weight oddly comforting as I closed my fingers around it.
“Pretty.” I muttered. I could see that it had once been broken and gold streaks seemed to hold the glued stone back together. I turned the stone over in my hands, running my fingertips along the golden seams where it had been broken and repaired. The metaphor wasn't subtle, but it touched something deep inside me. This stone had been shattered and put back together, yet it was more beautiful for having been broken.
I held it against my chest, its cool surface gradually warming against my skin. Christopher had given this to me deliberately, a tangible reminder that broken things could be mended, could even become more precious through the repair.
I turned the stone over, feeling its smooth surface against my skin. The gold veins where it had been repaired caught the light, making the breaks seem like intentional embellishments rather than flaws. There was a small folded note tucked inside the tissue paper that I'd missed initially. I opened it, finding Christopher's neat handwriting:
This is kintsugi stone. The Japanese art of repairing broken things with gold, making them more beautiful for having been broken. Not everything that breaks is ruined. Sometimes the breaking and mending creates something stronger and more precious. —Chris
Tears welled in my eyes again as I clutched the stone. The metaphor wasn't subtle, but it resonated deeply. I'd always been taught that flaws were to be hidden, mistakes covered up and denied. The concept that brokenness could be acknowledged, even celebrated, felt revolutionary.
I placed the stone on my nightstand where I could see it, then settled back against my pillows with the book of poetry. The afternoon light filtered through my windows, casting gentle shadows across the room as I lost myself in verses about resilience and renewal.
The afternoon sun streamed through my windows, casting warm patterns across the floor. I found myself growing drowsy despite the emotional turmoil, the chamomile tea and exhaustion from the panic attack pulling me toward sleep. I curled up on the bed with the soft blanket, the kintsugi stone cool against my palm as I drifted off.
When I woke, the room was bathed in the golden light of early evening. My body felt heavy but more settled, the sharp edges of panic smoothed by rest. The stone was still clutched in my hand, its weight grounding me as consciousness returned fully.
I sat up slowly, running my fingers through my tangled hair and glancing at the clock. It was past six—I'd slept for hours. My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd missed lunch entirely. The thought of facing everyone after my breakdown still made anxiety flutter in my chest, but hiding in my room indefinitely wasn't a solution either.
I moved to the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face and studying my reflection. My eyes were still slightly puffy from crying, but the desperate panic had faded. I looked tired but composed—human rather than shattered. I combed my fingers through my hair, deciding to leave it loose rather than attempting any elaborate style.
The kintsugi stone caught my eye as I passed back into the bedroom. Picking it up, I ran my thumb over its smooth surface before slipping it into the pocket of my sundress. Its weight against my thigh felt reassuring somehow, a physical reminder of Christopher's message.
Taking a deep just as a soft knock on my door made me jump.
"Lilianna?" Miles's voice drifted through the wood. "I know you might not be ready to come out, but dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes if you're feeling up to joining us. No pressure at all."
I hesitated, my fingers still wrapped around Christopher's stone. The thought of facing them after my breakdown made anxiety flutter in my chest, but hiding away forever wasn't something I could do forever…but maybe just today I could.
"Thank you," I called back, my voice rough from crying and sleep. "I... I would like to stay in my room….if that is okay.” If they pushed I would leave and go downstairs.
"Of course that's okay," Miles replied immediately, his voice carrying nothing but understanding. "Would you like me to bring you a plate? Christopher made his grandmother's beef stew, and it's perfect comfort food."
The offer surprised me with its simple kindness. No guilt, no insistence that I join them—just acceptance of my needs and an offer of care.
"That would be... that would be very kind," I managed, my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you."
"I'll be back in a bit," Miles said, and I heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
I settled back onto my bed, wrapping the soft blanket around my shoulders as I waited. The house was quiet except for the distant sounds of conversation and movement from downstairs—the gentle domesticity of people preparing and sharing a meal. It should have made me feel excluded, but instead it feltcomforting, like being surrounded by life while having the space I needed.
True to his word, Miles returned about thirty minutes later with a soft knock. "Dinner delivery," he called through the door.
I rose and opened it, finding him holding a tray with a steaming bowl of stew, fresh bread, and what looked like apple cider in a tall glass. His smile was warm but careful, his green eyes assessing me without judgment.
"You look better," he observed softly. "More rested."
"I feel better," I admitted, stepping back to let him bring the tray inside. "Thank you for this."
Miles set the tray on the small table by the window. "Christopher insisted on sending extra bread. He says carbs are essential for emotional recovery." His tone was light, but I could sense the genuine concern beneath the casual words.
"That's very thoughtful," I said, my eyes fixed on the tray. The aroma rising from the bowl made my mouth water despite my emotional exhaustion. "How is everyone doing? Are they... are they upset with me?"
Miles's expression softened further, and he moved to sit on the edge of my bed, careful to maintain respectful distance. "Upset with you? Lilianna, no one is upset with you. We're concerned about you, which is entirely different."
