Love, Elena had come to realize, didn't just bloom—it clung. It threaded itself into the pockets of ordinary life: in phone calls made during traffic, in shared groceries, in someone remembering how you liked your eggs. But just like roots, love also dug deep. And sometimes, it unearthed things you thought you'd buried.
She woke that morning with Drew's arm slung over her waist, the scent of coffee already drifting into the room.
He stirred awake slowly, lips brushing her shoulder. "I could get used to this."
Elena smiled. "Waking up late?"
"No," he murmured. "Waking up with you."
She hadn't moved in, but some of her things had found their way into his apartment—an extra toothbrush, her favorite pair of socks in his drawer, a novel half-finished on his nightstand. It was becoming a rhythm.
But even in rhythm, there could be dissonance.
---
That afternoon, Elena's father called.
He never called.
His name lighting up her screen hit her like a stone in the chest. She stared at the phone for three long rings before answering.
"Elena."
His voice was gravelly, uncertain.
"Dad," she said slowly, heart thudding.
"I heard you're back in town. From your aunt."
"I've been back a while."
A pause.
"I'd like to see you."
She wasn't ready for that. But something in her—some quiet, unfinished ache—said yes before she could say no.
---
Later that day, Drew noticed her silence.
They were painting a new shelf in the back room of the shop, sunlight slanting across the floorboards.
"You've been quiet since lunch," he said.
Elena dabbed white paint into a corner. "My father called."
He set the brush down. "Whoa. Didn't even know you two talked."
"We don't," she said. "Haven't in five years."
"What does he want?"
"To see me."
"And what do you want?"
She shook her head. "Closure, maybe. Maybe just proof he still exists."
Drew was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned over, brushing a smear of paint off her cheek. "Whatever you need to do, I've got you."
That night, she cried on his couch—not loud sobs, but the kind of silent tears that come from reopening old wounds. Drew didn't try to fix it. He just held her.
And that made all the difference.
---
The next morning, she stood outside a small diner just past the edge of town. Her father had chosen it.
Inside, he was already seated—older than she remembered, beard greying, fingers fidgeting with his coffee cup.
She sat down across from him, stiff as stone.
"Elena," he said, voice unsure. "You look like your mother."
"She always said I didn't," she replied flatly.
He winced. "I deserve that."
They ordered. They didn't eat.
"I'm not here to pretend nothing happened," he said. "I left. I was a coward. But I've thought about you every day."
"Why now?" she asked, folding her arms.
He looked down. "Because I'm sick. And I didn't want to die without telling you I'm sorry."
Her stomach flipped. "What kind of sick?"
"Pancreatic cancer. Stage three."
It felt like the wind got knocked out of her.
"I don't want your pity," he added. "Just your forgiveness."
Elena stared at the man who once walked out on her and her mother without a word. She thought of empty birthdays. Of watching her mother cry behind closed doors. Of becoming her own protector.
"I don't know if I can forgive you," she said softly.
He nodded. "I know. But thank you for coming."
They sat a little longer, in silence.
Before she left, he reached across the table and placed something in her hand. A small pendant. Her mother's. One she thought was lost forever.
"I never stopped carrying pieces of you," he said.
She didn't reply.
---
That evening, Drew found her by the riverbank near his apartment, shoes off, toes in the water.
She handed him the pendant. "He kept it all these years."
Drew sat beside her, pulling her into his side. "Are you okay?"
"No," she whispered. "But I think I'm healing."
They didn't speak after that. They didn't have to.
---
The next few days passed quietly.
Drew returned to the gallery to shoot a new collection—this time capturing people in moments of stillness: a boy tying his shoes, an old woman watching birds, a couple holding hands on a park bench.
He asked Elena to help him curate the captions.
She titled one photo The Wait, another Homecoming.
The one of the couple? She titled it What We Carry.
Because they all carried something, didn't they?
Memories. Wounds. Hopes. Love.
---
One evening, as she closed up the shop, she saw Adam.
He stood across the street, leaned against a lamppost like a memory trying to look casual.
He hadn't changed much—same confident smirk, same posture. But his eyes flickered when he saw her.
She walked over.
"Elena," he greeted, with that smile that once melted her.
"Adam."
"You look good," he said.
"Thanks."
"Missed you."
She studied him. The way he used his words like traps. How he waited for her to falter.
But she didn't.
"I'm with someone now," she said.
He raised a brow. "Someone better than me?"
"Someone kinder than you," she replied.
He laughed, low and mocking. "Still got that fire."
"No," she said calmly. "Now I have peace."
And she walked away.
---
That night, she told Drew everything.
He didn't rage. He didn't puff his chest or question her.
He just asked, "Do you feel safe now?"
"Yes."
He smiled. "Then that's all I care about."
---
A week later, Elena visited her father again.
They didn't speak much. They watched a movie. He dozed off near the end, her hand in his.
She left a blanket over him before she went.
She didn't know if it was goodbye.
But it didn't have to be.
Some things weren't tied with bows. Som
e things just... softened.
---
Back at the shop, she added a new shelf: secondhand poetry.
A small placard read: Words We Keep.
It wasn't flashy.
But it felt like growth.
And maybe that was enough.