CHAPTER 39
Caroline
I wake slowly, stretching under the sheets, unhurried, indulgent, claiming the space as my own.
There’s a particular kind of comfort that only exists in your own bed.
Hotel sheets can be crisp, pillows perfectly arranged, mattresses engineered for luxury, but none of it ever holds the quiet familiarity of home.
Here, every crease knows me. Every corner remembers my weight.
Edoardo isn’t here. The realization lands softly but doesn’t echo. He didn’t come back last night. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the thought drift instead of chasing it.
Where is he?
I roll over and check the time. Eight a.m. Too early. I decide I’ll text him around noon, give him a slow morning, give myself a few more hours of not knowing.
For a minute I lie there, listening to nothing and debating whether to stay wrapped in it. Then I push the blanket off in one decisive motion, as if movement might keep my heart from lingering too long in uncertainty.
Running gear. Teeth brushed. Hair tied. No hesitation.
Outside, the air is cool enough to sting the lungs in the best way. I deliberately avoid the trail where I first ran into Edoardo months ago, and instead choose the long loop around Buckingham Palace.
Music in. Water bottle secure. I start running.
At first my thoughts try to keep pace, loud and insistent, but the rhythm of my steps slowly dulls them. Breath in. Breath out. Pavement underfoot. The city waking around me. After about an hour, my legs grow pleasantly heavy and I slow to a jog, then a walk.
I stop at a small café for water and an espresso - my poison, my comfort. The bitterness grounds me. I order a cappuccino to go, cradling the warmth between my palms as I take the long way home, stretching time like taffy.
Back inside, I turn on the shower and let the steam wrap around me. It feels like a reset button, like the day is starting again but softer this time, quieter, more deliberate.
At eleven, earlier than planned, I text him. “Are you free to talk today?”
The three dots appear almost immediately, disappear, then appear again.
“Yes. Noon?” He texts back.
“Noon is good.”
Edoardo arrives exactly at twelve at a small brunch place not too far away. We sit across from each other, and the quiet between us isn’t hostile. But it feels wrong somehow, like a room holding its breath.
He stirs his coffee though he hasn’t added anything to it.
“So,” he says finally, voice gentle, “how was your morning?”
“Peaceful,” I reply. “I ran. Tried to outrun my thoughts. They kept up, but at least I tried.”
He smiles faintly. “You always try.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he admits.
I can see it, eyes sallow and red-rimmed. I didn’t sleep much either but we both know that. The air shifts just slightly.
After brunch, we walk back to my house. The familiar path feels a bit strange, like we’re approaching something. Inside, he lingers near the foyer, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense in a way he knows I’d notice.
“I need a minute,” I tell him softly. “I wrote something… in case I couldn’t say it right.”
He nods. “I did too.”
When I come back downstairs with the envelope, he’s holding one of his own. For a second, we just look at each other, unsurprised by the symmetry, by how much we must have been standing in the same emotional place without realizing. I can’t help a brief smile that appears on my face.
I hold up his letter slightly. “Should I read this first?”
“Your choice,” he says, but his voice trembles at the edges.
I sit, unfold the paper, and read. When I finish, the room feels very still, as if even the walls are listening.
His letter says:
Cara,
These past few months have been extraordinary to me, and I don’t think I have the right words to thank you for the way you’ve been in my life. I’ve treasured our time more than I’ve ever said out loud.
I’m deeply sorry for what my parents have done. I need you to know that I’ve never betrayed you, never with Isabella or anyone else.
But parents and all of the noises aside, what matters most is you and me. And I don’t know what to do to make it work for us.
I also sense that you’re carrying more than you let me see.
You ask for space, and I understand enough.
I want to be close to you, but I know you don’t trust me yet with the parts of yourself that live behind your innermost walls, the thoughts that keep you awake, the feelings you can’t share.
So, I will step back. I will give you the time you need.
And if one day you want to let me in, we can sit down and speak honestly about what we are, about what we need, about how to care for each other without fear.
Standing at a distance hurts more than I expected. It is painful to watch you struggle with something I cannot see, something I cannot help carry.
I don’t want to be apart from you, not even for a moment. Writing this is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time, because I don’t know when, or if, you’ll be ready to open your heart fully. But if it’s not with me, whoever you give that to will be unimaginably fortunate.
With love,
E.
So, this is how it ends.
Not because of Isabella. Not because of his family. But because I didn’t find the courage to trust him with the whole of me, to lean in instead of holding something back, to risk more for us.
And that, I realize with a quiet and piercing clarity, is fair. It took me too long to understand what I truly felt for him, to name it without flinching. By the time I did, it’s already too late.
I also see that what he feels for me is deep, tender, and achingly romantic, but it hasn’t yet crossed into love. Not the kind that anchors and stays. He’s written it clearly.
And love that doesn’t rise on both sides cannot carry a future. It bends under the weight of imbalance until it breaks, no matter how gently.
I lift my eyes to him. “Thank you,” I say, my voice steadier than my chest feels. “You’ve given so much of yourself to us, and I want you to know I see it. I’ve always seen it. And I am grateful in ways I don’t know how to fully say.”
There, I said it. The words taste warm, tender, and final.
I take a breath that feels like letting go of something fragile. “I hope you find the person who meets you with the same certainty you offer. I hope she loves you without hesitation. I truly want you to be happy.”
My gaze drifts to the envelope I had pressed into his hands only minutes ago. For a moment, I feel the heat rise behind my eyes, sharp and insistent, but I claw at it and hold it there with a ruthless iron-clad grip.
“May I have it back, Edoardo?” My voice softens, almost a whisper. “My letter. You don’t need to read it. We wrote the same ending, just in different words.”
He hesitates, then returns it.
We stand. For a moment it feels like we might hug, like gravity is pulling us closer, but instead we just hold each other’s gaze - long, grateful, aching.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the question careful, almost fragile. His eyes don’t quite meet mine, as if he’s afraid of what he might see there. “I want to make sure we’re… still okay.”
I let a small smile form, though it trembles at the edges. “I am. And we are. We’ll be alright.”
Another tender and aching pause, “Just… don’t be a stranger if we cross paths again.” I tell him.
“I won’t,” he says quietly.
And just like that, we part. Polite. Quiet. Caring. Softer than I ever imagined endings could be.
I stand there long after the door closes, staring at the space he occupied as if the air still remembers the shape of him. His scent lingers faintly, and it makes the room feel both full and impossibly empty at once.
He thought I wasn’t ready. And he fell for me enough to care, enough not to force me to become someone on his timeline.
What I wrote in the letter… well, let it rest then. Because I understand that love cannot survive on one person’s certainty alone.
The hurt will come. I can feel it waiting somewhere just beyond reach, gathering like a distant tide and when it comes, it would destroy everything on its path. But for now, there is only a calm, sober clarity.
I listened to myself. I chose with open eyes. Even knowing the choice will ache, I am certain of it.