Chapter 22- Ellie
Dad comes home late, the sound of his keys hitting the counter breaking the silence that’s been sitting heavy in the house all week.
The kind of silence that feels like it’s pressing against my skin.
The kind that makes every breath feel too loud.
I’m curled up on the couch, blanket pulled to my chin, pretending to watch the muted TV. The screen flickers, but I haven’t processed a single image in days.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just looks at me — that worried, gentle look that makes my throat tighten.
Then he holds something out.
A folded piece of paper.
“I found this on the porch,” he says quietly. “It’s from Oliver.”
My chest caves in.
Before I even touch it, my eyes sting.
Before I even blink, the tears spill over.
I burst into tears — not because I’ve read it, but because I know what it is.
Because I know it’s going to hurt.
Because I know it’s going to matter.
Dad kneels beside me, his hand warm on my shoulder. “Sweet pea,” he murmurs, “I understand you’re hurt, but we need to work this out. I don’t like seeing my daughter like this.”
I nod, but I can’t speak.
My voice is somewhere buried under the ache in my chest.
I take the letter with shaking hands and stare at it for a long time. The ink smudges where his fingers must’ve pressed too hard. It feels fragile — like it might fall apart if I breathe too hard.
Like I might fall apart if I open it.
I put it on the nightstand next to my bed.
I tell myself I’ll read it later.
But later keeps turning into never.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should just throw it away.
Wondering if reading it will make things worse.
Wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling this tired.
The room feels too quiet.
Too still.
Too full of everything I’ve been trying not to think about.
Finally, I whisper, “Dad… can you stay while I read it?”
He nods and sits on the corner of the bed, quiet, steady, safe.
The way he always is.
I unfold the letter.
I don’t read it out loud — it’s just me and the words.
Ellie, I should’ve told you the truth the second you looked at me.
My breath catches.
I keep reading.
Every line feels like a bruise pressed too hard.
Every sentence feels like something breaking open inside me.
He explains everything — Troya, the bouquet, the surprise, the panic.
He says he froze because he didn’t want to ruin it.
Because he wanted to make me smile.
Because he wanted our anniversary to be perfect.
By the time I reach the end, my tears have soaked the paper.
The ink blurs.
My hands shake.
I want to believe him.
God, I want to.
But his silence that night still echoes too loud.
Still feels like a door slamming shut.
Still feels like the moment everything cracked.
Dad squeezes my hand.
“Get some rest,” he says softly.
I nod, but I know I won’t sleep.
The thoughts won’t let me.
The ache won’t let me.
So even though it’s late, I grab my jacket and drive to Crysta l? Lake.
The air is cold, the moon bright.
The world feels quiet in a way that doesn’t hurt — just… honest.
I sit by the bay next to Dad’s car, listening to the water move, the night whispering around me.
Thirty minutes pass.
Maybe more. Time feels strange.
I look up at the stars, wishing for Oliver.
Wishing for everything to go back to normal.
Wishing for the ache in my chest to loosen.
Then I realize — it’s not up to the stars.
It’s up to me.
I pull out my phone.
I stare at his name for ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then I hit “unblock.”
My thumb hovers.
I hesitate.
My heart pounds.
Then I call.
He answers on the second ring.
His voice cracks. “Ellie?”
“I need you,” I whisper. “More than anything.”
He’s quiet for a moment — then I hear his breath catch. “I’m coming,” he says.
Ten minutes later, headlights cut through the dark.
He gets out of the car, eyes wide, worried, breathless — like he ran the whole way.
I don’t wait.
I run to him.
I run to him.
“Oliver,” I choke out, “I’m sorry. I—”
He drops to his knees in front of me, voice shaking. “No,” he says, “I’m sorry. For making you feel the way you did. For not saying anything at all. Ellie, I love you. And I don’t want to lose you.”
The words break me.
Completely.
I sob — loud, messy, real.
He pulls me into his arms, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again.
Holding me like I’m something precious.
I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing him in — the warmth, the familiarity, the safety I’ve missed so much.
His hands tremble against my back. Mine tremble against his chest.
We stay like that for a long time — two people who broke, trying to fit the pieces back together.
When I finally pull back, his cheeks are wet too.
“Ellie,” he whispers, “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “I just… I was scared.”
He nods, forehead resting against mine.
“I was scared too.”
The night is quiet around us.
The lake glimmers.
The moon hangs low.
I let myself believe that maybe love can survive the silence.
Maybe love can survive the fear.
Maybe love can survive us.
And as he pulls me back into his arms, I realize something simple and true:
I don’t want to lose him.
Not now.
Not ever.