Page 18 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
I hesitated. He rarely mentioned his ex without prompting, but there wasn’t any bitterness in his voice. Just fact.
"What made you want to come this year?"
He looked at me then. No smirk. No joke. Just eyes that went quieter than usual.
"You," he said. "I wanted to be here with you. I wanted to experience this first with you."
The fireworks hadn’t even started yet—hours to go—but something went off in my chest at that.
"Felicity," he said after a minute. "I know I talk too much. I make everything a joke when I don’t know what else to say—but I need you to hear me on this."
He sat up straighter, pulling one knee toward him, his posture shifting into something more serious. He cleared his throat.
"I’ve never… wanted someone like I want you. Not just for now. Not for something casual or convenient. I want to build something with you. Whatever this is, it’s not temporary to me."
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. We’d been dating a little under a year at that point. Things had been good—really good—but we’d never put it into words like that.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking off toward the Charles. "I know that’s a lot. I just… needed to say it."
Music started playing through the speakers along the river. Odd timing, but it felt like a sign. It screamed romantic so I went with it.
I slid my fingers over his, threading them together. "It’s not too much," I said.
And it wasn’t.
Not when it was him.
Hours later—after countless card games, a couple of bottles of wine, some funnel cake, and a lot of laughs—we stood side by side to watch the fireworks. Hand in hand, standing barefoot on our blanket like the hundreds of people around us. It was the most magical moment of my life.
Thinking back on it now, I asked myself ‘Where did that couple go?’
Chapter 7: Departure
~Caden~
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I swear I could hear every creak in the house—every shift of the floorboards made my ears prick, my stomach clenched. I kept waiting to hear her. To hear… anything. A door closing. A plate clinking against the counter. Even the sound of the dishes in the sink.
But there was nothing.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hypnotized by the ceiling fan spinning. The note I left—did she read it? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she came home, saw the table I set and the meal I picked out, and decided it wasn’t enough. Hell, I wouldn’t blame her. Couldn’t blame her for it.
But I’d tried. And I meant it. Maybe too little, too late. But it won’t stop me from trying.
It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t diamonds or a trip or a spa reservation my assistant handled. It was me. Picking out her favorites. Writing that letter by hand with the chicken scratch she always made fun of—me writing in all caps like my father did.
I smiled at that. Briefly. Thinking about her teasing me over the years about how my writing was so bad, but she never had a problem reading it. Just another reminder of our vibe—but I’d forgotten even that too.
And I had forgotten. Somewhere in the last few years, I lost the only language that ever mattered—hers.
A knot formed between my ribs, twisting tighter with each breath. I used to know how to make her laugh. I used to know the little things that made her smile. That made her feel safe. Loved. Seen. Then work crept in. Slowly, then all at once.
I think I thought I was doing it for us. For her. For our future. A few years ago, the company almost folded—it changed everything. I couldn’t breathe unless I was moving. Thinking back, I realized I didn’t look away long enough to see what it was costing me.
Late nights. Missed dinners. One anniversary on top of another. That year was a blur of stress calls, emergency loans, restructuring. I fought tooth and nail to keep us from closing—from impacting hundreds of jobs—and I won. At least that’s what I told myself.
