Ava stood in her living room, barefoot on the hardwood floors, sunlight pooling at her feet. Adrien's photos lined the wall—baby teeth grins, football trophies, graduation smiles. He was miles away now, chasing dreams with a fire she'd lit in him long ago.
And Alex was in the kitchen, humming a song she hadn't heard in years. The same one he used to play when they were seventeen, dancing barefoot in a tiny apartment, broke and madly in love.
Only now… he wasn't a boy.
He was a man who went to therapy. A man who held her hand without gripping too tight. A man who didn't flinch when she raised her voice. A man who apologized without "buts."
She still remembered the scars. But she no longer bled.
And today, as she looked at the table where breakfast waited—two cups of coffee, her favorite jam, and a newspaper he always folded for her—she felt the stillness of peace.
Alex stepped in, holding a rose in his hand.
"No grand gesture," he said, voice quiet. "No kneeling. Just… if you still want this. I'm here."
She didn't cry. She'd done that already. For years.
Instead, she walked over. Took the rose.
And kissed him—slow, certain, scar-touched.
It wasn't a fairytale.
But it was theirs.
And this time, no one was running.
The end
Signing off
Siddhii singh