Chapter Fifty Five
Camille
The days blurred together, one long stretch of work, classes, and kids.
On the outside, nothing had changed. I still woke up early to pack lunches, chased Zeke around with his shoes, and wrangled the twins through breakfast. At the doctor’s office, I smiled through check-ins and answered calls, my mind split between tasks and the heaviness that lingered in the background.
I hated myself for missing him. Hated that even when I promised I was done, part of me still hoped.
Still wanted the sound of his truck pulling into the lot, the kids shouting his name, the way my chest lifted just knowing he was near.
Hunter wasn’t supposed to be another chapter in the crappy part of my story. He was supposed to be the happy ending.
But I knew it didn’t work like that.
And it shows in the way I was unraveling.
Every laugh Zeke shouted across the room, every twin giggle, every little moment we’d once shared with Hunter twisted inside me. The kids asked less about him now, but that almost hurt more. It was like they were already learning how to stop expecting people to stay.
At night, after everyone was finally asleep, I’d sit in the quiet and feel the weight of it. The silence. The loss of something I’d started to believe might finally last. I hated myself for it, but I missed him.
I missed the stupid banter, the way his eyes would take on a new brightness when he looked at the kids, the steady presence that made my chaotic world feel just a little more balanced.
But I was done reaching out. Done sending texts that went unanswered. Done waiting for a knock at the door that never came.
I told myself this was survival. That I’d been here before, that I knew how to stitch myself back together.
Yet whenever I closed my eyes, I saw him sitting on the couch with Zeke talking about spaceships, pushing the twins on the swings, and leaning close to kiss me after he’d cornered me in the kitchen.
And the ache of losing that was worse than I wanted to admit.
Dani recognized the toll it took on me first.
She always did.
We were sitting in our usual booth at the diner, she sipping on iced coffee while I picked at fries I didn’t really want. She leaned back, studying me like I was one of her patients.
“You’re too quiet, Cam,” she said finally.
“I’m tired,” I answered, too quickly.
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been tired since freshman year of college. This is different. Spill.”
I sighed, staring at the fries. “Hunter and I… we’re not talking much.”
“Not talking much,” she repeated flatly. “Or not talking at all?”
I didn’t answer, and that was enough.
Her expression softened. “Oh, babe. What happened?”
I told her about the last few weeks—the silence, the distance, all the ways I kept trying to find fault in myself, as if that might explain why things were slipping.
Dani listened quietly, then sighed. “I know you’re scared of chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “But you can’t keep bleeding yourself dry waiting for scraps.”
???
Later that night, almost as if Hunter had heard the chatter in my head, I noticed a missed call and voicemail from Hunter.
His voice had filled the room, rough and uncertain, carrying the weight of something he wasn’t used to saying.
“Hey, Camille. It’s me. I… I’ve been working on some stuff.
Real stuff. I’m sorry for the silence. I don’t want to lose you.
Or the kids. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I want to try. Please. Just… call me back.”
By the end, my throat was tight, eyes stinging.
His words lingered in the quiet, hope and hesitation tangled together, pressing against old wounds and stirring something I thought I’d buried.
I closed my eyes and let his voice settle over me, pulling me back to the small, ordinary moments when his presence made the chaos feel less sharp.
I wanted to believe him. Part of me leapt at the sound of his voice, at the word try. But another part reminded me of past broken promises, men who swore they wouldn’t leave. And every time I ended up alone.
It was for that reason that I hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent me the day before.
He didn’t get to show up and make it better with one message.
Not after disappearing, not after leaving me to pick up the pieces again.
I couldn’t let another person think they could walk in and out of my life whenever it suited them — knowing I’d always open the door.
That’s how it had always been before. Second chances that turned into third, fourth, and fifth ones.
Apologies that came too late, words that meant nothing once the damage was done.
I couldn’t do that again.
So I left his message unread. Not because I didn’t care, if anything, because I cared too damn much. Because part of me still wanted to believe him, and I couldn’t afford false hope.
Life didn’t stop for heartbreak or hope; it just kept moving.
And I sat there in the middle of it, torn between the ache of missing him and the fear of letting him close enough to hurt me again, but I couldn’t call back because I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to be the only one holding us together anymore.
The kids needed me, school deadlines didn’t wait, and patients at work didn’t care if I was distracted.
I moved through it all with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, saving the storm for the quiet moments after bedtime.
I told myself I should delete the voicemail, that leaving it there was just asking for more hurt. But whenever I picked up the phone, my finger hovered over the trash icon and froze.
Instead, I replayed it. Once, when the kids were napping. Once, when the house was quiet, and I couldn’t sleep. Once, when the ache in my chest felt too heavy to carry alone. Each time, the same words pressed deeper: “I don’t want to lose you. Or the kids. I want to try.”
At night, I lie in bed and let myself imagine both paths.
One where I called him back, let him in again, risked it all only to have him walk away. And another where I stayed silent, closed the door, and taught myself once more how to carry the weight alone.
Neither felt safe.
But the one that terrified me most was the first.
I didn’t know if I could survive watching him leave again.