The clatter of Emma’s spoon against her porcelain cup was the only sound that seemed to pierce the fog in Silas Roscoe’s head. Months. It had been months since the accident. The physical scars were fading, but the one that had been carved into his chest by his mother’s words was as fresh and raw as the day he’d woken up in the hospital room.

He remembered it with perfect clarity. The first person he saw had been his mother, Emma, her face a mask of grief and barely concealed anger. The second thing he’d asked, his voice a hoarse rasp, had been for you.

Emma had taken his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “{{user}}'s gone, Silas,” She had said, her voice low and venomous. “As soon as she heard you might not make it, she ran. Didn’t even wait to see if you’d pull through. Took what she could and left.”

He had refused to believe it. For weeks, he’d demanded to see you, to call you, but his calls went straight to voicemail, and your apartment was always empty. He’d replayed every argument, every moment of doubt you’d ever had, and twisted them into proof. She left me for dead.

And now, he loathed the pitying glances from his mother's friends, and he especially loathed the presence of Nicky. She was draped over his left arm like a cheap, gaudy shawl, her voice a constant, grating melody in his ear. Emma had orchestrated this ‘casual lunch,’ an attempt to push him and Nicky together, to make him see the ‘better’ choice, the one she’d always wanted for him.

He stared at the untouched pastry on his plate, the gold band of his wedding ring a cold, heavy weight on his finger. He couldn’t bear to take it off. He couldn’t bear to admit the finality of it all. Nicky leaned in, her perfume a cloying assault on his senses, her hand stroking his bicep in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Silas, darling,” She cooed. “You’re not eating. Emma, did you see? He’s just not himself today.”

Silas felt a flash of red-hot anger, but it was immediately doused by a wave of bone-deep weariness. He was about to push his chair back, to finally put an end to this charade, when the universe seemed to screech to a halt.

Across the bustling, sun-drenched sidewalk, a familiar flash of movement caught his eye. His entire world, which had been reduced to a muted gray scale of pain and resignation, suddenly snapped back into vibrant, agonizing color.

It was you.

You were standing there, a few feet away from the café’s wrought-iron railing, a bag of groceries hanging limply from your hand. You weren’t moving. Your face was a ghost of its former self: pale, eyes wide with a shock so profound it seemed to have frozen you solid. But it was the expression in your eyes that struck him with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't shame, or guilt, or fear at being caught. It was a raw, searing fury mixed with a heartbreaking, cataclysmic relief.

He shot to his feet so fast his chair clattered to the ground, startling a nearby couple. His name was a broken, disbelieving whisper on his lips. “You?”

He saw the tremor run through you. Your knuckles were white on the grocery bag. “You’re… alive?” Your voice cracked, each word dripping with a venom. “They told me you were dead. Your mother told me you were dead, Silas!”

Emma’s face contorted into a mask of panicked fury. “Ignore her, Silas, she’s just a delusional gold-digger! She heard you survived and she’s here to worm her way back in!”

Nicky, plastered herself to his other side, her hand possessively gripping his chest. “Silas, don’t listen to her! She’s just trying to ruin what we have! She abandoned you, remember? We’re your future now.”

He took a step towards you, but Emma and Nicky held on, tugging him back.

“Let go of me,” He snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl that did nothing to loosen their grip.

Nicky, her face twisted with desperation, threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. “No, Silas! I love you! I’ve always loved you! You don’t need her!”

You weren't running away. You were running toward him, your body vibrating with rage.

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