ONCE MORE, WITH YOU

Solené Beckett

My phone buzzes once—just one soft vibration against the nightstand—and I don't think much of it at first. It's almost midnight, and I've spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. Again.

That's all I seem to do lately.

I only glance at the screen out of habit. But when I see her name, my breath catches in my throat.

Summer.

My heart stutters. For a second, I think I'm hallucinating. I've imagined this moment too many times—her name lighting up my screen, her voice saying she wants to talk, her presence in my life again, even just for a little while.

But this isn't a dream.

I sit up so fast the sheets fall from my shoulders. The screen glows in my hand, her message sitting there like a second chance I never thought I'd get.

Hey. I don't even know where to begin, but I think we need to talk. I've been carrying a lot of pain and confusion, and I don't know if reaching out will fix anything, but I also don't know how to keep pretending I'm okay when I'm not. If you're open to it, I'd like to see you. Not to fight. Just... to talk. To understand. To figure out where we stand, if anywhere at all.

My chest tightens. I read the message three times, each word digging deeper than the last. I want to cry, or scream, or throw my phone across the room and kiss it all at once.

I don't respond right away. Not because I don't want to—God, I do—but because I want to say the right thing. After everything I've already screwed up, this... this matters more than anything.

So I wait until morning, until my hands are steady, until I've stopped pacing and planned every possible version of how today could go.

At 8:47 a.m., I finally type:

I've wanted to hear from you every day since you left. Thank you for reaching out. Just tell me when and where, and I'll be there.

She replies ten minutes later.

⸻

It's colder than I expected for early December. The wind bites at my cheeks as I step out of the car and look up at the coffee shop we used to go to. A neutral place. Public. Safe.

I chose it because I figured she would, too.

I'm ten minutes early. I needed to be. I needed a moment to gather myself, to rehearse everything I want to say. To make peace with the fact that she might not want to hear it.

I'm sitting by the window when she walks in.

My breath gets caught somewhere between my ribs and my heart.

She's wearing the cream sweater I used to love on her—soft, oversized, the one I used to tug on when she stood at the stove or leaned against the sink brushing her teeth. Her hair is half-up, her face bare. She looks tired, beautiful, and a little bit guarded.

She sees me and pauses just inside the doorway. Her eyes land on me, and I swear the entire world slows down for a second.

She walks over.

"Hi," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi." I stand, awkwardly, unsure if I should hug her, shake her hand, do nothing. I settle for a soft smile and motion toward the seat across from mine. "Thanks for coming."

She nods, sitting carefully, like her body still isn't sure if this is the right choice.

I wait until the barista brings her tea before I say anything else.

"You look good," I offer.

She raises her brows slightly, not in surprise, but maybe disbelief. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to."

She looks down at her cup. "You still say the right things."

I pause, fingers tightening around my mug. "I didn't come here to charm you."

"Good," she says. "Because I'm not here to be charmed."

Ouch. But fair.

There's a long silence after that. The air between us is thick with things unsaid. I can feel it—all of her pain, all of the confusion. I caused that.

"Summer," I begin, quietly. "I want to say this first: I'm sorry. Truly. Deeply. You didn't deserve to find out like that. You didn't deserve any of it."

She looks up at me, eyes unreadable. "Then why did it happen?"

"I never meant to hide it. I swear to you, I didn't. The marriage... it wasn't real. It wasn't love. A desperate choice made for someone I cared about once, but it didn't mean anything after that. We haven't spoken in years. No contact. No relationship. We just—never filed. It became a forgotten legal tie."

"And you forgot to mention that?" she says, voice sharp, but shaking. "You forgot to tell me you were married?"

I don't answer right away. There's no excuse that will ever make it sound right.

"I didn't think it mattered," I admit. "Not because you didn't matter. But because I didn't see them as a part of my life anymore. It felt like a distant mistake. And the longer I waited to bring it up... the harder it became."

She scoffs softly, looking out the window.

"I kept waiting for the right moment. And then the right moment never came. And then... you were everything. And I didn't want to ruin it. But I did anyway."

Another pause. I let her sit in the silence. Let her process.

"I loved you," she finally says. Her voice breaks on the word loved, and my stomach twists.

"I still do," I whisper.

She doesn't look at me. She just stares at the condensation on her cup like it holds answers.

"I've been a mess without you," I continue. "I didn't text or call again because I didn't want to push. I figured you hated me."

"I did," she says, and her eyes flash when she meets my gaze. "I still might."

I nod slowly. "That's okay."

"But I also missed you," she adds, voice softer now. "Every stupid thing reminded me of you. The way I folded laundry. The music in my car. The scent of your shampoo on one of my pillows I never washed."

I press a hand to my mouth, trying not to let the emotion spill over.

"I wanted to move on," she continues, "but I kept wondering if you were out there wondering too."

"I was," I say. "Every day."

She looks down at her hands. "I don't know if I can trust you again."

"I know."

"I don't know if I should even try."

"I know that too."

"But I had to see you," she says. "Just once. Just to ask if any of it was real."

I reach across the table, slow and careful, fingers outstretched but not touching.

"It was," I say. "Every second."

Her hand hesitates, then rests near mine. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the warmth.

"I don't expect you to forgive me today," I say. "Or ever. But I'll wait. If there's even the smallest part of you that still believes in us—I'll wait."

She studies me for a long time. Then she nods, just once.

"I don't know what we are," she says. "I don't even know what I want yet."

"That's okay."

"But I'm here. And I'm listening."

That's more than I ever hoped for.

So we sit there. Not healed, not whole, but here. Two people carrying broken pieces, trying to see if any of them still fit.