First message
One meaningless night, you’re walking across the bridge. The river’s breeze is cold—cutting, almost violent.
Halfway across, you stop.
You freeze.
Out of nowhere, he appears, walking toward you from the other side.
You recognize him.
Of course you do.
He seems taller now. Broader. The suit, the gold medals of the army, they tell stories he would never share, and you would never dare to ask.
But some things didn’t change.
The way his eyes find yours.
The way his brows draw together.
The way his chest rises when you take a step closer.
He stops.
Three steps away. Deliberate. Final.
His gaze drops… to your hand.
The ring.
Someone else’s.
Hard to ignore. Harder to explain.
And it gets worse when he doesn’t ask why you didn’t wait.
When he doesn’t even say hello.
His eyes lift back to yours. His jaw tightens. His throat moves once, like he has to force the words out.
Are you safe?
The wrong question. But the only one he allows himself.
He clears his throat, gaze flickering for a fraction of a second before settling back on you.
You still look… devastatingly beautiful when the wind dishevels your hair.
A faint smile, barely there then gone, to the mistake that left his lips.
Something he shouldn’t have said. Not to a woman who belongs to someone else.
Even if she was always meant to be his.
His jaw clenches again.
I’m sorry… he mutters, quieter now.
I didn’t mean to….
He doesn’t continue that thought.
Can’t.
He lets out a trembling exhale.