As the doors closed, I caught his voice–low but firm.
“I’ll be there. No matter what.”
After the meeting, I kept going back and forth.
Seven years. Might as well end it properly.
The old place was still there. Just a tiny street–side restaurant.
I used to hit it up between shifts and night classes.
It’s where he first told me he loved me.
Didn’t think Mr. Balvin would remember us.
Dude looked way older–gray hair, slower shuffle–but his smile hit like a throwback.
“Didn’t think you two were still a thing.”
“Let’s not get it twisted, Me and him? Not even friends anymore. Just bring the usual.”
Quentin’s lips tightened. Yeah, that hit him.
+25 Bonus
1/2
Chern
He ordered a bottle, chugged half like he was trying to drown the silence
Then, finally, he spoke. Guess the liquor did its job.
“Vivienne… five years. I’ve been searching for you, but you just vanished.
I kept eating. Quiet. Cold.
He drifted from old memories to what’s left of now.
“Never divorced Rainee,” he muttered, laughing like it hurt. “You were right. Couldn’t let her go. But I couldn’t let you go either.”
Then he dropped it–like it meant something
“Guess what I named her kid?”
I looked up, couldn’t help it. His eyes were glowing soft, all tender and broken.
“Quivien,” he said. “Every second, I was thinking of you. But I was too much of a coward to face you”
He hid behind his hands and cried–quiet, ugly, relentless.
All I felt was a weird wave of disbelief.
Once I finished my food, I finally said something
“If that’s all, let’s not drag this out. We’re done here. No need for a reunion tour.”
Quentin shut his eyes like that one cut deep, then took a shaky breath.
After a long pause, he looked at me again–eyes full of everything I didn’t need.
“…Alright. Let me walk you back.”
His voice cracked. Too late for soft.
+25 Bonus
After that dinner, Quentin finally let go.
We didn’t talk after that. Not a text. Not a call.
Once my report wrapped, I flew back overseas and slipped right back into my quiet, clockwork life.
Then, a year later–another report, another trip home—I saw her.
Cecilia. Waiting.
She looked wrecked. No smug smirk, no sharp tongue. Just guilt.
“I’m sorry, Vivienne. It was all my fault. I hope… you can forgive me.”
I gave her a small smile. Most of it felt like a lifetime ago.
Before I could ask why she was even there, she reached into her coat and pulled out a letter.
Her voice cracked.
“Quentin’s gone. The doctor said it was from a broken heart. He said his biggest regret was how he treated you. He divorced Rainee after the baby… but he couldn’t face you. Too scared. Too ashamed.”
My throat went dry. Lips pressed tight.
Why do people always wait till it’s too late?
Lopened the letter.
One line.
[May we meet again in the next life and start over.)
I let out a breath.
Then I lit the letter on fire.
‘Hope next life, you actually know what you want.‘
2/2
