Chapter 19
His Letter to Me
“What happened?” My voice comes out high and panicked.
She turns to me, eyes shining. “We won,” she whispers. Then louder, disbelieving: “Sophie, we won!”
“The building?” My pulse skyrockets as she nods frantically, spinning her monitor so I can see.
The official city seal sits at the top of the email.
My eyes catch phrases like “historic designation approved,” “protected from demolition,” “significant cultural landmark,” and “Underground Railroad heritage site.”
Dr. Martinez grabs my hands. Hers feel warm and trembling. “It’s official. They can’t touch it now. The clinic is safe.”
I read the email three times to make it real, my vision blurring with tears. After all those late nights. All the endless paperwork. All the digging through dusty archives. The crushing weight I’ve carried for weeks suddenly lifts, leaving me dizzy with relief.
“We need to tell everyone,” I manage, my voice cracking.
Within twenty minutes, the clinic transforms into an impromptu celebration.
Sara raids the supply closet for birthday decorations we keep on hand—blue and yellow streamers that clash horrifically but nobody cares.
Jen from reception sprints to the bakery across the street and returns bearing two dozen pastries on a plastic tray.
Dr. Martinez produces a bottle of sparkling cider she’s been hoarding in the break room fridge “for emergencies.”
The waiting room smells like sugar and coffee instead of antiseptic. Someone cranks up a pop playlist—normally I’d hate it, but today it feels perfect.
I hang back, watching everyone. My cheeks ache from smiling so hard.
I’m not accustomed to feeling this light after weeks of crushing anxiety.
The mayor materializes—news travels at lightspeed in Bellrose.
A photographer from the Bellrose Gazette arrives.
Even old Mr. Jenkins brings his golden retriever in just to join the festivities, not even bothering to pretend they need a checkup.
“Is Zayn coming?” Sara appears beside me, pressing a cherry danish into my hand.
My stomach flips at his name. I study the pastry like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I don’t know.”
Sara gives me a look. “You haven’t told him?”
“Dr. Martinez sent the email to everyone like five minutes ago,” I say defensively.
It’s true, but my phone feels like lead in my pocket. I should text him. Call him. Something. But what would I say? Hey, we won, thanks for all your help before I slammed a door in your face?
Mrs. Peterson totters over, her chihuahua glaring at me from the depths of her designer purse like I’ve done something wrong. “Dear, where’s that handsome lawyer of yours? I wanted to thank him properly.”
Heat floods my face. “He’s not my—”
“Such a lovely young man,” she continues, completely ignoring me. “My nephew practices law in Portland, but he doesn’t look half as good in a suit.”
“I’m sure Zayn is swamped with other cases,” I say, smile feeling plastered on. “He has numerous clients.”
Before Mrs. Peterson can wax poetic about Zayn’s appearance in formal wear, the mayor intercepts her with questions about her dog, and I escape. But I only make it a few steps before Dr. Franks from the dental office across the street catches my arm.
“Sophie! Congratulations! Elena mentioned you and your boyfriend worked so hard in saving the clinic. That’s wonderful!”
“He’s not my—” I attempt again, but he’s already launched into speculation about property values.
I nod and smile through a parade of people. Everyone asks about Zayn. My responses become increasingly hollow.
“He’s in court today.”
“Busy with client meetings.”
“He’ll be thrilled when he hears.”
What I don’t mention: I shut the door in his face three days ago. I’ve ignored his texts. I have no idea where we stand or if we’re anything at all.
Dr. Martinez taps her plastic spoon against her cup for attention. The room quiets, everyone turning toward her. She stands taller today, her eyes bright with joy instead of exhaustion and worry.
“Thank you all for being here,” she says, her accent thickening with emotion. “Months ago, I believed it was over. After so many years, I thought we’d have to close our doors forever.”
My throat constricts. I can still see her at her desk that terrible day, holding the rent increase notice with shaking hands.
“But I was wrong,” she continues. “This clinic isn’t just a building. It’s sanctuary. For animals, yes, but also for the people who love them.” She raises her cup. “Here’s to everyone who fought to save this place. Especially Sophie and her brilliant lawyer.”
Every face turns toward me. Heat crawls up my neck as they lift their cups in salute. I attempt a smile but it feels fake. My pulse kicks up so violently I’m certain they can hear it over the clinking glasses.
“Speech!” someone shouts from the back. Others pick up the chant.
I shake my head frantically, but Dr. Martinez pulls me forward anyway. The room tilts as I face all those expectant faces. Words desert me completely.
“I…” My voice emerges barely audible. I clear my throat and try again. “I only did what anyone would do for a place they love.”
But I know that’s not entirely true. Not everyone would spend weeks looking through moldy archives. Not everyone would fight this relentlessly. Not everyone would…
Not everyone would refuse their dream job twice and choose to stay and fight for a small-town veterinary clinic.
The thought hits me so hard I lose my train of thought completely. I mumble something generic about teamwork and community support before retreating into the crowd, pulse hammering. People resume their conversations as someone cranks the music louder.
I slip into the hallway, desperate for solitude.
Saving the clinic feels monumental yet somehow incomplete.
Like finishing a novel with the final chapter missing.
We saved the building. We won the battle.
But standing here in the corridor, listening to celebration sounds drift past, all I can think about is how Zayn isn’t here—and how victory tastes like ashes when you have no one to share it with.
I extract my phone and pull up his contact. My finger trembles as it hovers over the call button. I want to hear his voice, but I’m terrified. Before I can decide, Sara pokes her head around the corner.
“Dr. Martinez needs you,” she says. “The Gazette photographer wants a group shot of all the staff.”
I pocket my phone. “Coming,” I say, ignoring the pain spreading through my chest. Everyone’s still celebrating. I paste on my brightest smile and rejoin them, even though inside I feel like I’m breaking.
The party winds down as patients start coming in for their afternoon appointments.
I’m collecting empty cups from the reception desk when someone touches my shoulder.
Dr. Martinez stands beside me, her expression caught between joy over our victory and something more serious.
She’s holding a cream-colored envelope with my name written across it in a familiar handwriting.
“He wanted me to give you this,” she says quietly, pressing the envelope into my hands.
Her fingers linger on mine for a moment.
“I don’t know what’s happening between you two, but that man genuinely cares about this place.
” She pauses, meeting my eyes directly. “And he’s absolutely crazy about you. ”
My hands tremble slightly as I accept the envelope. It feels heavier than paper should.
“When did he—”
“He stopped by this morning,” she says before I can finish. “Before we received the news.” She squeezes my hand gently. “He looked exhausted, mija. Like he hasn’t slept in days.”
Tears prick my eyes. I remember how he looked at my apartment door three nights ago—wrinkled shirt, hollow eyes, but so fierce when he told me he’d refused New York.
“Thanks,” I manage, slipping the envelope into my pocket. It feels warm against my thigh, like it might burn straight through the fabric.
Dr. Martinez nods toward the hallway. “Take your break. I’ve got the front covered.”
I mumble my thanks and escape down the corridor, past exam rooms where appointments have resumed, past Sara prepping a cat for X-rays, until I reach the break room at the far end.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. The room sits empty and quiet except for the refrigerator’s hum and muffled voices from reception. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air. I sink into a chair at the round table and take out the envelope.
I stare at it for a full minute, pulse hammering. What if this is goodbye? What if he’s leaving for New York after all? What if—
Enough, I think. Just open it.
I tear it open carefully. Inside are several pages of his handwriting, plus some folded documents. There’s a faint coffee stain on the first page—I can picture him at his desk in that house he built with my dreams in mind, drinking coffee at dawn, agonizing over every word.
I take a shaky breath and begin reading.
Sophie,
I’ve started this letter seven times. Each time I think I’ve found the right words, then I realize there probably aren’t any. How do you compress five years of mistakes and regrets into something that makes sense? But I have to try.
When I left Bellrose five years ago, I convinced myself I was being practical. Mature. I believed success meant a six-figure salary and an impressive title. I thought I needed to become someone important to deserve you.
My hand trembles as I turn the page. His handwriting becomes more erratic in places, like he pressed harder when emotion took over.
The truth is, I was terrified. Not of failing professionally—of failing you. Of not being enough. Of trapping you in a small town when you deserved the world. So I chased what I thought would transform me into someone worthy. All I did was hollow myself out.
That first year in Seattle, I told myself I was building our future. That eventually you’d join me, or I’d return once I’d “made it.” But every promotion felt emptier without you there to celebrate with. Every achievement rang hollow.
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. The next page details his major cases, his accolades, his increased salary—and how none of it filled the void.
Three years ago, I refused my first major partnership offer—a position at Winston & Gray in Chicago.
Cameron was furious. I told him I wanted to focus on cases that helped actual people instead of faceless corporations.
But I couldn’t even admit to myself the real reason: Chicago would take me even further from Bellrose.
Further from any possibility of finding my way back to you.
He’s included a copy of the offer letter. $275,000 annual salary plus comprehensive benefits. His declination letter is dated three years ago, just like he said.
That’s when I bought the house. Not “my” house—our house, even if you never knew it existed.
Every choice I made—the location on the hill, that marble island, the east-facing windows for morning light—I made thinking of you.
Even if you never walked through that door.
Even if you’d moved on with someone else.
Even if you hated me too much to ever speak to me again.
I needed to build something real that represented what I actually wanted.
What I should have chosen five years ago instead of Seattle.
My vision blurs. I blink rapidly, and a tear drops onto the paper. I quickly dab it away before it can smudge his words.
The property deed is folded among the other documents. Purchased three years ago, exactly as he claimed. Long before he knew anything about my current life. Before he knew if I was single or married or so angry I’d slam doors in his face.
Last year, I started actively searching for positions in Bellrose. Not because I knew about the clinic’s troubles—discovering that was just timing. But because I finally had to face the truth: no amount of professional success was worth being away from home. Away from you.
I turned down three offers before accepting the position at Hargrove & Associates. Each would have meant better titles, bigger salaries. Each would have taken me further from Bellrose.
He’s included the rejection letters—Boston, San Francisco, London. The London firm offered nearly double his Seattle salary.
I’m not sharing this to impress you or make you feel obligated. I need you to understand this wasn’t some impulsive decision I made yesterday. My choice to stay in Bellrose has been building for five years—ever since I realized what actually matters.
I don’t expect immediate forgiveness. I’m not asking you to forget the pain I caused or pretend the last five years didn’t happen.
All I’m asking for is a chance to prove myself, one day at a time.
When I said “always, you,” I meant it—I wasn’t mature enough to honor that promise back then. I am now.
If you need time, take it. If you need space, I’ll give you that.
But I’m staying right here, Sophie. Not moving to New York or back to Seattle or anywhere else.
This is where I belong—whether that means being with you or just living in the same town, watching you build a happy life from a distance.
Yours, always,
Zayn
I press the letter against my chest, feeling my heart thunder beneath it. Tears stream down my face unchecked, and I don’t even try to stop them. Five years. He’s been navigating his way back to me for five years, while I’ve been building walls to keep him out.
I’ve wasted so much energy looking backward, protecting myself from potential hurt. All I’ve accomplished is blocking any possibility of happiness.
I fold his letter carefully and tuck it into my pocket with the supporting documents—proof he made these choices years ago, not knowing if I’d ever discover them. His love didn’t suddenly reappear when he returned to Bellrose. It never left.
I take a steadying breath and check my reflection in the break room mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but something’s shifted in my expression—a determination I haven’t seen in years. I’m still scared, terrified actually. But fear isn’t driving anymore.
When I was eighteen, I didn’t fight for us. I stepped aside for his career and convinced myself that was maturity. We both got it wrong back then.
But we’re not those people anymore. We’ve both changed. And maybe that means we get a second chance to get it right.