I can’t stop reaching for my phone—like muscle memory, my thumb hovers over his contact. The texts are still there. I haven’t deleted them. I scroll up, staring at the ridiculous things I’ve sent him.
(Tuesday, 6:42 AM): Morning. Hitting the gym at 7 if you want to come.
(Friday, 8:15 AM): I can spot you if you need it. Sophie’s busy with the shop today.
(last Saturday, 10:04 AM): You good? Haven’t seen you around the gym.
(two Mondays ago): Had a craving for some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and happened to stop by the petrol station near you. Are you home?
Or perhaps I can entice you with an entire pan of cinnamon rolls?
No response, but they’re all marked asread.
There’s a part of me that wants to sayfuck it—to stop texting him altogether. I could blame pride, or maybe the ache that forms in my chest every time his silence stretches on too long.
But I can’t let it go—not this time.
Sophie catches me one morning halfway through typing out another text to him. She pauses by the kettle, watching me with those bright, blue eyes.
“Julian.”
I glance up, feigning innocence. “Morning, pet.”
Her gaze drops to my phone, and I swear it’s like she can see through the screen. “You’re texting him again, aren’t you?”
I shrug, locking the screen as if that somehow erases the evidence. “He’s probably just busy.”
She steps closer, leaning against the counter, her eyes softening. “You know he’s not.”
I don’t respond, because I know she’s right.
I see it in her too, the way she lingers in rooms where his absence is most obvious, the way she glances at the front door after long days, as if expecting him to walk in unannounced.
We’ve built a solid life together. But this? It feels like we’re both venturing into uncharted territory, trying to figure our way through something neither of us is familiar with.
Sophie’s voice cuts through the silence. “Maybe we just need to give him more time.”
I nod, even though I know time isn’t the solution.
Time is the enemy.
Time drags.
The gym is quieter than usual this Saturday afternoon, but the weight pressing down on me has nothing to do with the barbell.
I’ve become an expert at staying busy—early workouts, house projects, helping Sophie with the bookstore, closing deals. Anything to distract me from the ache that hasn’t left since Kai walked away.
Seventeen years ago, I could dismiss it—convince myself I wasn’t that into him, that I imagined the pull between us or the growing feelings I’d been containing for years. But now? I’ve had him. I’ve felt what it’s like to share him with Sophie, to touch him, kiss him, envision something more. Losing him this time stings in a way that feels permanent.
Keeping busy helps. Making love to Sophie helps. But the sadness in her eyes mirrors my own. Neither of us knows how to untangle the mess he left behind.
Sophie hasn’t seen him much either, buried in preparations for the shop’s grand opening. But she misses him. I can see it in the way her gaze lingers on empty spaces he used to occupy, in the soft sighs she thinks I don’t notice. It’s the same way I miss him, like I’m missing a part of myself I didn’t realize I needed.
I thought I was lucky when he came back into my life. Losing him twice feels unbearable.
And yet, there’s that voice, the one that urges me to let him go. To stop before I risk unraveling everything Sophie and I have built.
I love my wife. That will never change. But I wonder if there’s a limit to how much love I can give, if loving Kai means takingsomething away from her. If this desire I can’t seem to shake is dangerous, threatening the foundation Sophie and I have spent years fortifying.
