Bonus Scene （Marcus’s POV） #2
I meant what I said. I was going to kiss you.
I read them seventeen times. Thought about responses. Decided against them. Thought about some more. Typed nothing.
The radio remained silent. Even it had given up on me.
What was I supposed to say? It's fine? It wasn't fine. I understand? I didn't understand. Come back? And then what—wait for the next interruption, the next crisis, the next disco emergency to pull her away?
I'd spent two years learning how to be alone. I could do it for the rest of my life if I had to.
I didn't respond.
The next morning, she was at my door.
And I said things. True things. Harsh things. Things I'd been thinking for two days while I waited for her to come back, while I convinced myself she wouldn't, while I built my case for why this was never going to work.
"I can't be your maybe," I told her. "Your possibly. Your 'let me think about it while I entertain five thousand other options.'"
"I'm not—"
"You ARE. That's what you DO, Diane."
I watched her face crumble. Watched the words land like blows. And I kept going, because I was scared and I was hurt and I was so goddamn tired of hoping.
"I deserve better than that," I said. "So do you."
And I closed the door.
THE CHOICE
I was ready to let her go.
I'd convinced myself it was the right thing. The kind thing, even. She needed to figure out her own mess before she could be with anyone. I needed to protect what was left of my carefully constructed peace.
Then the exes started appearing.
I heard them before I saw them—a commotion outside, voices overlapping, someone yelling about cosmic vibrations (Greg, obviously, the man was nothing if not consistent). I looked out the window and saw her.
Diane. Surrounded by what looked like every man she'd ever considered dating, all of them clamoring for her attention. There was a teenager in a powder-blue polo. A man in neon workout gear doing something with a Rubik's cube. Greg, of course, resplendent in leisure-suited glory.
It was, objectively, the most ridiculous thing I'd ever seen.
My first thought: Of course. Of course she brought an entourage.
My second thought: She came back. After everything I said. She came back.
I opened the door. Said something cutting about the company she was keeping. Waited for her to make excuses, to explain, to run.
She didn't run.
She said: "EVERYONE STOP."
And they did. Even I stopped—stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped everything except watching this woman who had spent her whole life keeping doors open finally, finally decide to walk through one.
"I choose you," she said.
My heart stopped.
"Not because you make the phone stop buzzing. Not because you're safe—you're not safe, you're terrifying, you're the scariest thing that's happened to me in years."
Terrifying. She thinks I'm terrifying. I own an antique shop and drink tea. I'm about as terrifying as a disgruntled librarian.
"I choose you because you see me. The real me. The scared, commitment-phobic mess who's been running from everything for five years. And instead of accepting that, you demanded I be better."
She was walking toward me now, through the crowd of exes, her eyes locked on mine.
"I choose you because when I'm with you, I don't want to run. And that's never happened before. Not once. Not with anyone."
Behind her, I could see them all—Greg with his mix tape, the teenager with his corsage, the Rubik's cube guy, a dozen others whose names I'd never know. Every option the universe had thrown at her, assembled on my sidewalk like the world's worst reunion.
"I choose you, Marcus Chen. Not as an option. Not as a maybe. As the only door I want to walk through." She took a breath. "If you'll have me."
Silence.
I thought about Sarah. About the promise I'd made her—to keep living. To not just shut down.
I'd been breaking that promise for two years.
Maybe it was time to start keeping it.
"The shop is closed," I said.
Her face fell. She thought I was rejecting her.
"Which means everyone needs to LEAVE. NOW."
And they started to fade.
Greg dissolved mid-wave, his leisure suit shimmering into nothing. The teenager vanished, powder-blue polo the last thing to go. The Rubik's cube guy disappeared with what might have been a faint pop. One by one, every romantic possibility she'd ever entertained winked out of existence.
The sidewalk was empty. Her phone was silent. It was just us.
Just her and me and the terrifying possibility of something real.
She was standing there, waiting for my answer, looking at me like I held something precious in my hands.
I reached out and took hers.
"I'm not easy," I warned her. "I'm grumpy. I'm set in my ways."
"I'm terrified. I'll probably panic at least once a week."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It absolutely will be."
I pulled her closer. Looked at this ridiculous, chaotic, brave woman who had somehow crashed through every wall I'd built.
"I can work with exhausting," I said. "As long as you keep choosing."
"Every day," she promised. "As many times as it takes."
And then I kissed her.
From inside the shop, the radio crackled to life. Not Barry Manilow this time—something soft, something hopeful. Jazz, but the romantic kind. The kind that said finally, you idiot.
She's chaos incarnate. She talks constantly. She has seven shampoos. She wears orange like it's a personal challenge.
And she chose ME. Out of everyone. Out of every option the universe threw at her. She chose to stay.
I'm never letting her go.