Page 46 of The Valentine Agenda

James flinched. "This isn't like that."

"No?" She began gathering her papers with precise movements. "Because from where I'm sitting, it's exactly like that. You, choosing your world over everything else. Me, being naive enough to think it might be different this time."

"I made a mistake—"

"No." Hannah stood, clutching her work to her chest like armor. Her apple pendant glinted in the light. “You made a choice."

He wanted to deny it, to tell her she was wrong. But wasn't that what he always did? Make excuses, explain away his actions, convince himself and everyone else that he was right?

"Tell me how to fix this," he said finally.

Something softened infinitesimally in Hannah's expression. Not forgiveness—not even close—but perhaps recognition of his honesty.

"James," His first name in her voice made his heart stutter. "Not everything can be fixed."

She moved toward the door, and every step felt like she was walking further away from any possibility of them.

"Hannah—" He reached for her, then let his hand fall. "I care about you."

She paused in the doorway, and for a wild moment he thought she might turn around. But she just adjusted her grip on her papers and said quietly, "No, you don't. You care about anidea of me." She took a breath. "It's the same way I used to think I cared about you."

The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow hurt more than a slam would have.

James stood in the empty community room, surrounded by evidence of Hannah's life—the one he kept failing to be part of. Children's paintings covered the walls. The craft supplies were organized with loving attention, markers sorted by color, scissors arranged by size.

This was her world. The one he kept saying he wanted to be part of, right up until his own world called him back.

He picked up a fallen crayon. Rolling it between his fingers, he realized something that made his chest ache.

He didn't just miss her. He missed who he was when he was with her—someone who noticed small kindnesses, who cared about things beyond stock prices and social status.

Someone worthy of being looked at the way Hannah used to look at him.

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James's apartment felt empty.

He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights spread before him like scattered jewels, but all he could see was his own reflection—disheveled and mussed. The perfect view he'd spent years cultivating suddenly felt hollow, like a movie set of success instead of the real thing.

His phone buzzed: another message about the Sinclair merger. The numbers were good. The board was pleased. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

He hadn't checked his email in hours.

Through his window, he caught a glimpse of movement in the courtyard below. Hannah was helping Mrs. Peterson navigate the icy path, one arm steady under the older woman's elbow. Even from this distance, he could see how she leaned in to listen, how she matched her pace perfectly to Mrs. Peterson's careful steps.

James pressed his forehead against the cool glass. He should be reviewing contracts, returning calls, doing any of the thousand things that had always seemed so important before. Instead, he stood here, watching Hannah do what she'd always done—care about people in that quiet, constant way of hers.

Had anyone ever taken care of her like that?

Had he?

The answer made his chest ache. No, he hadn't. He'd been too busy proving himself, too focused on appearances, too caught up in his own importance to notice that Hannah Miller was the most important thing he'd ever let slip through his fingers.

"Pull yourself together," he muttered to his reflection. This was ridiculous. He was James Park. He didn't pine after women who'd rejected him. He didn't stand in darkened apartments watching people help elderly residents cross courtyards. He didn't—

His breath caught as Hannah looked up, just for a moment, toward his window. She couldn't see him, he knew that. But something in her expression—a flicker of what might have been sadness—made him step back like he'd been burned.

He finally understood what that hollow feeling in his chest was. Why none of his usual distractions worked. Why every reflection showed him a stranger wearing his face.

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