Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ROSE
The envelope sits on the counter in the back room of the shop for a long time before I touch it.
It’s plain. No return address. My name written in Callum’s handwriting, neat, careful, like he was afraid of getting even that wrong.
Lukas had come in just before my shift ended, lingering awkwardly by the till while I finished with a customer, his presence out of place among the shelves and gentle hum of the fridge units.
When we were finally alone, he slid the envelope across the counter without a word.
“He asked me to give you this,” he’d said gently. “No pressure. Whenever you’re ready.”
Then he’d left, no lingering, no explanations, like he understood this wasn’t something anyone could soften for me.
Now it’s followed me home, sitting on my kitchen table like it has weight, like it knows what it carries. I circle it for nearly an hour, putting the kettle on, taking it off again, pretending to tidy while my eyes keep drifting back to my own name in his handwriting.
I know I don’t have to open it. But I also know I will.
I stand by the window and watch people move through the street below like they know exactly where they’re going.
Anything to avoid opening the letter. I keep telling myself I don’t owe him this.
That I could leave it unopened, let it sit until the paper yellows and the edges curl, proof that I protected myself.
But the truth hums under my skin, restless and insistent. I want to know.
When I finally sit, I don’t rush it. I press my palm flat against the envelope first, grounding myself in the solidness of the table, the tranquillity of my flat, the fact that I’m safe here. That whatever this is, it can’t hurt me unless I let it. I slide my finger under the flap and open it.
The letter inside is folded once. No dramatic pauses. No preamble. Just truth, waiting.
Rose,
I am sorry I let you build trust on incomplete truth.
I am sorry I took away your choice.
I am sorry that my fear became your pain.
I’m not writing this to ask for anything.
I’m writing it because you deserve to hear the truth without pressure, without interruption, without me standing in front of you hoping for a certain reaction.
I caused the accident by running a red light. I didn’t hit your car, but I know that doesn’t make it better. I didn’t stop when I should have. I panicked, and I made the worst decision of my life.
I tracked you down the next day because I couldn’t live with not knowing if you were okay. I didn’t know you then. I didn’t expect anything from you. I just needed to face what I’d done.
I didn’t tell you sooner because I was afraid. Not of consequences, I’d already accepted those, but of losing the way you looked at me. And that fear cost me everything anyway.
I won’t tell you I loved you as an excuse. I won’t tell you I was confused or overwhelmed or protecting you. I wasn’t protecting you. I was protecting myself, and that was wrong.
If you never speak to me again, I’ll understand. If you do, I will answer anything you ask. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. I won’t expect forgiveness. I won’t rush you.
I am proud of the man I’m trying to be now. I wish I had been him sooner.
Callum
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens instantly, emotion flaring sharp and sudden.
My chest aches, but not with shock, my heart thuds painfully against my ribs.
I already know what happened now. I’ve read the headlines, the statements, the endless speculation.
What’s different is the way he says it; no hedging, no justification.
There’s no signature flourish. No plea. No promise of forever.
Just the truth, laid bare and trembling.
I lower the letter slowly, my hands shaking.
It hurts. God, it hurts in that deep, echoing way that lives somewhere behind my sternum, spreading outward until my whole body feels tender and exposed.
But beneath the pain is something else, something steadier.
This doesn’t feel manipulative. It doesn’t feel like damage control or a bid to pull me back in.
It feels like accountability. And that terrifies me more than any lie ever could.
Because the truth I’ve been circling, the one I’ve refused to name, finally rises to the surface.
My deepest fear isn’t that Callum lied to me.
It’s that I let myself be seen so completely.
I trusted him with parts of myself I didn’t even know how to protect.
I let him see my softness, my doubts, my hope.
I stepped into his world knowing how sharp it could be, and I believed, truly believed, that I belonged there with him.
That kind of vulnerability isn’t something you bounce back from easily.
I press the letter to my chest and let myself cry, not the jagged, breaking sobs from before, but something slower. Grief mixed with recognition. Mourning not just what we lost, but who I was brave enough to be with him.
I don’t plan to go to the game.
The thought comes fully formed, resolute, as I dress that evening. Jeans, hoodie, hair pulled back. Incognito. Anonymous. Just another face in the crowd.
And yet, somehow, I end up there anyway.
I buy my ticket at the gate, heart hammering like it might give me away, and slip into a seat halfway up the stands. Not in the family box. Not anywhere I could be recognised. Just close enough to see the ice clearly, but far enough to disappear.
The rink is alive with lights blazing, crowd buzzing, and that familiar thrum of anticipation vibrating through the air. It feels strange to be here without him knowing, without the understated exchanges, the way he used to glance over during warm-ups like he was checking in.
I tell myself I’m here for closure. Nothing more.
When Callum steps onto the ice, the reaction is mixed.
Applause, yes. But scattered. Uneven. A few boos cut through the noise like sharp edges, and I flinch even though I know they aren’t aimed at me. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t lift his chin or posture himself into defiance.
He just skates.
And I watch.
Not as his girlfriend. Not as the girl at the centre of a scandal.
Just as someone seeing him clearly for the first time.
He plays differently now. There’s no flash, no showboating.
No reckless charges or unnecessary risks.
His movements are controlled and deliberate.
He passes when he could shoot. Holds position instead of chasing glory.
It’s disciplined. Mature. Like a man who understands restraint.
At one point, during a stoppage, his gaze lifts instinctively toward the stands and my breath catches, stupid and hopeful, but he doesn’t scan.
He doesn’t search. He looks away again, focused inward.
That matters more than I expect it to. He’s not here to perform remorse.
He’s not looking for absolution in my face. He’s just playing.
The game stays tight. Playoff tension coils through the arena, every hit drawing gasps, every near miss sparking groans. When Callum blocks a shot in the third period, grimacing as he gets back to his feet, pride flares hot and unwelcome in my chest.
I don’t cheer. I don’t boo. I just sit there, hands clasped together, heart finally calming in a way it hasn’t for weeks. By the final whistle, I know something has shifted. Not healed or resolved. But steadied.
I leave before the crowd does, slipping out with my head down, the cold night air sharp against my cheeks.
I walk for a long time before I stop, the city stretching out around me, familiar and strange all at once.
When I finally pull out my phone, my hands are steady. I stare at his name for a long moment.
Then I type.
One conversation.
I pause before I add more.
Public place. No touching. No promises.
My thumb hovers and then I finish the text message.
But the truth. All of it.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The message whooshes away, small and terrifying and powerful all at once. I don’t know where this leads. I don’t know if we find our way back to each other, or if this is the moment we learn how to let go with honesty instead of pain.
But now, since everything shattered, the choice is mine. And that feels like the bravest thing I’ve done yet.