BONUS EPILOGUE
Cole
Stepping out of her office felt like stepping out of my own heart. With every footfall, a part of me unraveled, drifting away like autumn leaves caught in the wind, fragile, weightless, lost. I walked away from the love of my life.
Because love was never meant to be a battlefield, and yet I had turned ours into one. Sometimes, even love cannot repair what was broken beyond repair.
I had carved wounds too deep and left scars too jagged for time to smooth over. I had loved her in all the wrong ways.
And now she was yearning for what it truly meant to be loved right.
To be cherished without pain. To be held without fear.
And I had to face the most painful truth of all. She would find that love, but not with me. I had to let her go. Even if it destroyed me.
He would give her the happiness she deserved. Love her the way she was always meant to be loved—gently, fully, without hesitation or pain.
But no matter how good of a man he was, I knew deep in my bones, in the marrow of my being, I could give that to her, too.
I could be better. I could change.
I could love her just as fiercely, just as tenderly.
I could be the man she needed, the man she once believed I was.
I could undo the damage, rewrite our story, turn every bitter memory into something loving, something whole and meaningful.
For her, I would rewrite every broken part of myself, tear down the man I used to be, and build someone worthy of her love. I would worship her, not just with words, but with every choice, every action. I would love her in the way she deserved, wholly and unconditionally.
I would be truthful. I would spend a lifetime proving that she would never have to doubt me again.
But wanting to change and being given the chance to prove it were two different things. And after all I had done, I had already lost the right to try. Because how do you make someone believe in the future when you've poisoned the past?
How do you ask for another chance when you've turned years of warmth into cold regret?
How do you prove that love can survive the wreckage you've left behind?
Even though I had lost her since the day she found out about my betrayal, today, she made it final. Any lingering chance, any fragile thread of hope, was severed. And that was what hurt the most. There was nothing left to hold on to.
She said that some things change us forever.
Was it really? Because if she had managed to flip a switch and unlove me, then surely, she could just flip it back.
If only she would let herself.
If only she would give me a chance.
Love isn't some irreversible condition, is it? If she could train her heart to forget me, to erase every piece of what we were, then what was stopping her from remembering? From choosing me again?
But that was the thing about chances—you don't get an unlimited supply. And maybe I had already burned through every single one.
Or was it just that she didn't want to?
And if she didn't want to, if she had decided that I wasn't worth the trouble, that I wasn't worthy of her, then what the fuck could I do about it?
I couldn't force her to love me. I couldn't undo the past with apologies and empty promises. If she had already made up her mind, if she had already closed the door, then maybe all I could do was stand outside and watch through the window as someone else gave her everything I should have.
I dragged a hand down my face, frustration tightening in my chest.
Self-reflection.
I knew it was necessary, but damn, it was fucking brutal. It meant plunging into the darkness, wading through the wreckage of memories, the highs, the lows, the unbearable truths. I had nothing but admiration for the rare souls who had the courage to confront their flaws and embrace the raw, unfiltered truth of their emotions.
I wished I could say I was one of those people. But I wasn't. Not yet anyway.
A million thoughts, a million what-ifs flooded my mind as I drove, the road stretching endlessly before me, as directionless as the mess I had made of my life.
No destination in mind.
Not with my driving. Not with my future.
Just me, the hum of the engine, and the weight of everything I had lost.
*** *** ***
I was a fucked-up disaster of unchecked, bleeding emotions.
Losing her left a void nothing could fill. The days crawled by, empty and colorless, but it was the nights that truly broke me. The bed felt too big, the silence too loud. Mornings were a battle I lost before I even opened my eyes. Food turned to dust in my mouth. My thoughts refused to settle. And simply existing? It was agony.
And not once could I help but wonder if I should have swallowed my pride and begged instead. Because maybe having only part of her was better than not having her at all.
I'd catch myself staring at my phone, her name lit up on the screen like a challenge. My fingers hovered over the call button, the urge to hear her voice clawing at me.
I wanted to call. Needed to see her.
But I knew I couldn't. I couldn't do anything.
So I hurled my phone against the wall, watching it shatter on impact. But it didn't make a difference. It didn't ease the ache in my chest or silence the chaos in my head.
All I felt was emptiness. And pain. Nothing else.
All I could think about was how much I missed Sara. It was an all-consuming void, a constant weight pressing down on me. No matter how hard I tried to push it down, the longing never faded. It only grew stronger. Most days, I retreated into my mind, losing myself in every memory I had with her.
During those bleak, unending days—weeks, maybe even months—I knew Leo, Steve, and Bobby had been there. I couldn't remember when exactly, couldn't recall the details, but I knew they had come. They had looked after me, making sure I didn't completely fall apart.
Or maybe I already had, and they were just there to pick up the pieces.
When I finally pulled myself together enough to see things clearly, lucid enough to take in my surroundings, I saw Steve perched on my kitchen counter. My new apartment—barely furnished, still unfamiliar—felt more like a stranger's space than my own.
I blinked at him, my voice hoarse from disuse. "What day is it?"
Steve told me.
And the truth sank in. I had been drowning in my own despair for sixty-two miserable days.
The pain was still there, the emptiness still crushing, but I realized that I had to face it.
It was the only way forward. Even if it meant barely existing. Even if it meant only half-living.
Still, it took me days until I finally got out of my apartment, decided to eat out. Alone.
I wasn't in the mood for company. Didn't feel like making conversation.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. One I hadn't even thought through. Before I knew it, I had changed into something more presentable, thrown on my coat and shoes, and stepped out of my apartment.
Hands shoved deep into my pockets, head down, I walked along the sidewalk, scanning the restaurants that lined the street. I wasn't in the mood for crowds or noise. I just wanted a quiet place to eat.
Eventually, I settled on an Italian restaurant. Even from the outside, the rich, savory aroma drifting through the doors made my stomach growl in anticipation.
Strangely, it wasn't too busy. I wondered why. Maybe it was expensive.
Then I stepped inside, unaware that this simple choice—this fleeting, impulsive decision—was about to set off a chain of moments that would shape me in ways I wouldn't be able to comprehend.
Moments where I would break and rebuild, where I would lose and learn.
Where the past would collide with the present, forcing me to face the wreckage I had tried so hard to ignore.
Where buried regrets would rise to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. Where the weight of my choices would press against my chest, leaving no room to run, no space to hide.
Where pain would carve deeper before healing could begin. Where I would be tested, stripped raw, and forced to confront the man I had become and the one I still had a chance to be.
And in the middle of it all, between the heartbreak and the awakening, between the undoing and the rebuilding, was the faintest glimmer of something I thought I had lost forever.
Hope.