I wish I could go back. I wish I could rewrite the nights I made you feel small,
The mornings I made you question your worth.
But more than anything—
I wish I could kneel beside you at your mother's grave And be the kind of man who held you through that grief, Instead of becoming the reason you wept harder.
That's what haunts me most.
That I added to a pain I should've helped carry.
That I made you feel alone
That I reminded you that she is not here when you needed her,
I saw this necklace and thought of the two of you. Dancing in some memory I was never part of,
but always knew mattered more than anything.I know a gift doesn't make up for what I broke. But maybe it can be a smallreminder—that there was love here once. That I see you, even from far away.
Take all the time you need. Take all the space. You don't owe me anything. But if there's ever a door open again— even just a crack— I'll be waiting.
No pressure. No expectations. Just hope.
—Aaron
Tears welled up as I opened the box. Inside was a delicate necklace—a pendant depicting a mother and daughter dancing together, captured in a graceful embrace.
Overwhelmed, I sat down, clutching the necklace.
Dad sat beside me on the edge of the couch, the box still open between us, the necklace catching a shard of late afternoon light like it was holding something sacred. He didn't speak right away. Just rested a warm, steady hand on my shoulder—the kind of touch that didn't try to fix anything, just reminded you that you weren't alone in it.
His voice was soft when it came. "You're in control, June. This is your story to write.
And I won't think less of you if you decide to forgive him. Sometimes people do come back changed. But whatever you choose..." His thumb rubbed a small, thoughtful circle against my arm. "Please... don't break that man's heart."
I turned to him slowly, brows drawing together. "He broke mine," I said, and my voice came out raw, not just with anger—but with the ache of all the versions of myself I'd had to gather off the floor.
He didn't flinch. Just gave a quiet nod, then tilted his head like he wanted me to see something I hadn't yet. "I mean moonboy."
The name felt like a sudden hush in a loud room. I stared at Dad, startled.
"What? Why would I ever—"
He gave me that look. The one I'd seen my whole life—the one that told me he'd already watched the story unfold while I was still learning the first few lines.
"Because sometimes, when we're nursing old wounds," he said, "we get so focused on the pain that cracked us open... we miss the quiet hands trying to stitch us back together. Sometimes, we forget the hearts that are standing close, not asking for anything—just hoping we'll look up long enough to see them."
His voice trailed off, but the words stayed, heavy and aching in the silence.
I looked down at the necklace again. And suddenly I wasn't just thinking of what had been lost—
I was thinking of Liam, waiting. With galaxies in his metaphors and kindness in his stillness.
Never demanding. Just showing up.
I opened the drawer slowly, the wood creaking like it, too, remembered. Then, with careful hands, I placed the necklace inside—the pendant catching the light for just a second before it disappeared into shadow. It landed beside the letter, still folded, still unread for a second time.
I didn't cling to them. I didn't cast them away. I simply let them be. A quiet surrender. Some things aren't meant to be carried or discarded—just...set down and left in peace. With a soft breath,I closed the drawer. Dad watched me from the doorway, silent until I turned toward him.
