Tears welled up again, traitorous and fast. “I’m such a basket case.”
“You’re not.” Her tone turned firm, almost annoyed on my behalf. “You’re a person going through a hard thing. There’s a difference.”
I sniffled and looked down at my lap. “I really thought Roman was different.”
Her fingers curled around mine, steady and warm. “Tell me.”
I exhaled slowly. “He just… got me. I didn’t have to pretend around him. I didn’t have to overthink every sentence or manage his reactions like I was some emotional project he had to survive. And I felt like I got him too. That I was what he needed. I thought we were”-my voice cracked-“on the same page.”
Charlotte didn’t jump in. She let the silence stretch, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
“It was a fake relationship,” I said. “And I still somehow managed to catch real feelings.”
“Because it wasn’t fake to you.”
I nodded, biting my lip hard.
She sighed. “Look, I know this probably sounds like garbage advice right now, but the right person? The right one won’t need to be convinced. You won’t have to bend yourself into painful shapes to make it work. The right one will meet you where you are.”
“What if I already met him and he just… didn’t feel the same way?”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Then he’s not the right one.”
I scoffed. “That’s convenient logic.”
“It’s true. The right one sticks. You can’t push him away. You can cry, scream, self-sabotage-and yeah, it’ll be messy-but he won’t be scared off. He’ll show up anyway. And not because he has to, but because he wants to.”
I bit down hard on my lip. I hated how right she sounded. Hated how much I wanted her to be wrong. Because if she was wrong, then maybe Roman had just made a mistake. Something we could fix.
But if she was right, then maybe I’d never really had him at all.
“I need to get out of this bed,” I said.
Charlotte looked pleased. “Yes. Move your body. It doesn’t have to be a run. Just go outside, breathe fresh air, stand in the sun. Do something to remind your brain that you’re still alive.”
I gave a watery laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”
“I watched a lot of mental health reels on Instagram last night.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
Charlotte stood and picked up the empty coffee cup. “Rotting is allowed. I support rot. But only temporarily. Your spirit’s still in there, Mags. You just have to make space for it to come back.”
I nodded. “I’ll get up.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
As she stepped out of the room, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, every muscle protesting like I’d just run a marathon in my sleep. I looked around at the half-unpacked overnight bag, the mountain of tissues on the nightstand, the smear of mascara on the pillowcase.
God, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.
Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe being sad wasn’t the whole story. Maybe I could move and cry at the same time. Maybe I could grieve and grow.
Maybe I could survive this.
I stood up. Wobbly, but upright.
It was a start.
A kickboxing class sounded like the right decision. Like Charlotte had said, I needed to move. To breathe deeply. So, I did just that.
I was halfway through round two with the punching bag when my knuckles started to throb, but I didn’t stop or slow down. Sweat dripped down my spine, soaked through the band of my sports bra, and still I kept swinging. Left jab. Right cross. Step back. Repeat.
I needed this.
Every hit felt like an exhale. Every hard slam of my fist into the bag made the ache in my chest feel a little less suffocating. I’d been bottling it up-grief, anger, heartbreak, confusion-and this was the first time I’d given myself permission to let it out and stop pretending I was okay.
Because I wasn’t.
I missed Roman. That didn’t surprise me. What was surprising, though, was the fact that even through all this missing and hurting and unraveling, I still wanted what was best for him. And if that meant Willow-if she made him feel safe and seen and whole-then I could learn to be happy for him.
Even if it shattered me in the process.
I paused, panting, and rested my hands on my knees, letting my arms dangle loose. The bag swayed slightly in front of me like it was waiting for round three. Maybe later.
I looked up and?-
Oh my god.
Roman.
He looked completely out of place in his hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling slightly around his ears, holding, of all things, a bundle of pottery cradled in his arms like a newborn.
“Sorry,” he said, breathless, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not here to sign up for kickboxing, though honestly, I might need to after this.”
“Roman,” I croaked, frozen in the middle of the mat.
He stepped forward. “I don’t want a fake mate,” he said loudly, voice echoing off the studio walls. “I want you. Only you.”
Gasps from the women to my left. A little giggle from the instructor. Roman crossed the rest of the distance between us, holding out the bundle he carried.
“I brought these,” he said. “You saw them at the farmer’s market weeks ago. You picked them up and put them back. You said you didn’t need them.” He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing the two handmade ceramic urns I’d loved and walked away from. The ones with the blue-gold glaze and the delicate floral designs.
“I figured you could use them,” he said. “You know. For one of two purposes.”
I raised a brow, heart pounding. “Which are?”
“Well, either you can use them for my ashes,” he deadpanned, “because I’ll die inside without you.”
A few people gasped again. One lady went “Aww.”
“Or,” he continued, lifting the smaller urn and tugging a bunch of wildflowers from inside, “you can keep these in it. Because I want you in my life, Maggie. Like I need oxygen. I’m not breathing right without you.”
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
Roman took another step, gently setting the flowers and urns on the mat beside me. “And just to get ahead of your follow-up question,” he said. “Lucien knows. About everything. And I told him exactly what I wanted.”
“You did?” I whispered, hardly daring to believe it.
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