We didn’t talk about the letter.
Not that night.
There would be time for that.
After dinner, Nathan washed the dishes and I dried them, and it was so ordinary that it almost hurt.
When he left, he paused at the door.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For tonight.”
“Thank you for the tulips.”
He smiled.
The real one — the one that reached his eyes.
“Same time next week?” he said.
I considered it for exactly one second.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded once and walked to his car.
I closed the door.
The yellow tulips were still on the counter.
I found a vase, filled it with water, and set them by the window where they’d catch the morning light.
Then I went to bed, and for the first time in months, I didn’t lie awake going over the same pictures in my head.
The story I had been telling myself was over.
A different one was just beginning.
—
Sometimes the truth arrives too late — and sometimes it arrives exactly when it needs to.
Have you ever misjudged someone you loved because you only had part of the story?
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