The days that followed the café meeting felt like an endless blur of time slipping through Nathan's fingers. He could feel the weight of the past pressing down on him, but the future—whatever it was—remained just out of reach.
It had been two weeks since his conversation with Sarah. The silence between them had stretched long, more uncomfortable than either of them had expected. He'd told her he needed time, but the truth was, he didn't know how to be around her anymore.
The guilt gnawed at him, constantly reminding him of that night—the night everything had changed. No matter how far he ran from it, the memory was still there, clinging to him like a shadow, twisting and suffocating.
At night, sleep came reluctantly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lewis—his brother's blood staining the floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at him, accusing. No matter how much he tried to push the image away, it lingered, haunting him in the quietest moments. It was his fault. No matter how much he told himself it wasn't, deep down he knew it was.
Sarah's face was no better. Her eyes—those same eyes that had once filled him with warmth and affection—were now filled with sorrow and confusion. He could still feel the weight of her last words to him, her soft whisper, "I hope so."
He couldn't get over the feeling that they had both lost something they would never get back. The love they once shared, the friendship they had built, everything had been shattered, and no matter how much time passed, nothing would ever be the same again.
---
One evening, Nathan stood by the window of his small apartment, watching the rain fall in sheets, the city lights blurring in the distance. He hadn't heard from Sarah in days, and he hadn't reached out either. It felt like they were stuck in this limbo, a place neither of them wanted to be, but neither knew how to escape.
His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. His heart skipped when he saw Sarah's name. He hesitated before answering, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest. But the moment he swiped the screen, he could hear the rawness in her voice.
"Nathan, I need to talk to you."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His throat went dry, and his heart raced. She had reached out again. But this time, he wasn't sure he was ready to face whatever came next.
"Where?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
There was a long pause before she replied. "The old park. I know it's been a while, but… I think it's time we finally talk. Really talk."
Nathan closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he let the tension in his body dissipate. He didn't know what she wanted. Didn't know if he was ready for what would come of this conversation. But he couldn't ignore the pull, the quiet ache in his chest that told him he couldn't let go of her just yet.
"Okay," he finally said, his voice firm despite the uncertainty swirling inside. "I'll be there."
---
The park was quiet when Nathan arrived. The air was cool and fresh, the soft rustling of the trees filling the silence. He had avoided the park for months now—too many memories, too much pain. But tonight, it felt different. He wasn't sure if it was the weight of the conversation that lay ahead or something else, but the park felt like a place where they could finally lay their ghosts to rest.
He spotted Sarah sitting on one of the benches near the fountain, her back to him. She was wearing a simple jacket, her dark hair falling loosely around her shoulders. When she turned and saw him approaching, her expression softened, and she gave him a small, tentative smile.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," Nathan replied, sitting beside her. There was a brief, awkward silence before either of them spoke again.
"I've been thinking," Sarah began, her voice barely audible. "About everything. About us. About... what happened."
Nathan tensed at the mention of that night, but he forced himself to stay calm, to listen. He wanted to understand. He wanted to know where they stood, where everything had gone wrong.
"Go on," he encouraged quietly.
"I've never stopped thinking about you, Nathan," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped caring. And I don't know why things happened the way they did. I just... I couldn't control it. But I need you to know that I've never blamed you. I blamed myself for not seeing things sooner. For not being there when you needed me."
Nathan shook his head, his chest tightening. "Sarah, you didn't do anything wrong. I just... I was never the person you needed me to be. And when Lewis came into the picture, I couldn't handle it. I couldn't watch you fall for him, even though I knew I should've been happy for you. And then that night... when everything spiraled out of control... I—"
She interrupted him, her hand reaching for his, her touch warm but tentative. "Nathan, stop. Please. I know you're hurting. I know what happened was awful. But we can't keep blaming ourselves for it. Not forever."
He met her gaze, his eyes searching hers for some sort of clarity, some kind of answer. "What are you saying, Sarah? That we just let it go? That we can pretend nothing happened?"
"No," she whispered. "I'm saying that I think we both need to forgive ourselves. We can't change what happened, but we can decide how we move forward from here. Together or apart."
The weight of her words settled on him like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what the future held for them. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like there was hope—a small, fragile hope—that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way back to each other.
"I'm not sure what's next for us," Nathan said quietly, his thumb gently brushing against her hand. "But I'm willing to try. If you are."
She smiled then, a real smile, one that lit up her face in a way he hadn't seen in months. "I'm willing to try," she whispered.
And as they sat together in the quiet park, the weight of the past still heavy but no longer suffocating, Nathan wondered if this was the beginning of something new. Something different. Something that wasn't defined by the pain they had caused each other but by the possibility of healing, of forgiveness, of starting over.
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