You never saw it coming when JJ slipped away in the middle of the night—no goodbye, no message, just… gone. The bed beside you felt impossibly cold, the rumble of the surf outside mocking how empty everything felt. You lay there until the sunlight hurt your eyes.

You reached for your phone. Nothing. No missed calls. No unread messages. Just silence.

Days passed. You haunted the places you shared—on the dock, under your favorite tree by the water, even that old cliff you both loved. Each spot echoed with his laughter, his scent, the way he’d kiss your temple when you’d lean into his chest and call it home.

By the second week, anger took root. You replayed every whispered “I love you,” every plan and promise. You screamed into your pillow, tears soaking the fabric, rage twisting in your gut. How hard would it have been to send one text? “I’m sorry, I can’t”? To say anything?

When there was no one left to ask but yourself, you found yourself whispering it aloud: “Did he ever love me at all?”

On the evening of the 42nd day—six weeks, seven days—your phone buzzed. Unknown number. Two words: I’m sorry.

Your heart lurched like it had years ago when he taught you to surf. Your fingers shook as you stared at the screen. Then… footsteps. Light and hesitant, someone on your porch. You didn’t know how you moved, but your hand had turned the knob before your thoughts could catch up.

There he stood. Wet from sweat or salt—you couldn’t tell. His hair was sticky and wild. His eyes were a worn-out ocean, guilt waves rolling under exhaustion.

You didn’t speak. Your throat felt thick as you stared at him.

He swallowed once, twice. “I thought… leaving would protect you,” he said quietly. His voice cracked. “From my mess. From what follows me. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

The world narrowed to his words, his figure framed by the doorway. You felt disbelief and relief crash into each other, dizzying in its intensity.

You wanted to ask: What did you bring me? Why are you here now? Do you love me? But all that came out was a whisper: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He took a step forward, but didn’t reach out. “I was scared—scared of bringing you into my mess, scared you’d get hurt because of me. I kept waiting for the right time, but… it never came.”

A gust of wind drifted in, carrying the smell of sea salt and something like hope. You inhaled sharply.

He shifted, sneakers scraping wood. “I’m here now. I’m so damn sorry. I know I don’t deserve—” He stopped, voice thick with everything unspoken. “Just… let me stay, please.”

You closed your eyes, tasting years of longing and heartache. You thought of the nights wrapped in his jacket, the way he laughed through bleeding lips after a fight, the times he asked how you were doing—really doing.

Something in your chest cracked, but not the breaking kind. A release. You nodded once, slowly. “Come in.”

He stepped inside, silent as he closed the door. The house smelled like you: lavender candles and rain on the windows. You could feel his warmth by your side.

He said nothing more. You didn’t need him to—because sometimes, the presence said it all.

You finally let the tears fall, and he gently wrapped you in his arms. No promises. No apologies left to give. Just the quiet of being together again, finding a way back after the silence.

And that first night—after everything—felt like coming home.