Olivia's POV
Five years later
The lights of New York City twinkled outside my window as I stared at my blank document, the cursor blinking mockingly at me. The deadline for my final draft loomed less than twenty-four hours away, and I had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" I screamed, slamming my laptop closed. I stormed onto my balcony, not caring who heard me. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE!
My voice echoed between the buildings, probably disturbing half the neighborhood. I didn't care. The pressure was suffocating me, crushing my creativity when I needed it most.
"You're having fun, right?"
I whipped around to find Carter leaning against the doorframe, crooked smile playing across his face.
"Come on, live a little," he said, taking a drag. "You can't do this, right? You're shouting at the top of your lungs, and you think I didn't hear? I'm living in the next room."
Carter. My ex-boyfriend from school. The one who'd struggled with addiction and spent months in rehab. Now he was here in New York, working at a treatment facility, trying to piece his life back together. He'd moved into the apartment next to mine two months ago—a coincidence that still felt strange.
"Sorry," I mumbled, running my fingers through my tangled hair. "Tomorrow's my submission deadline, and I've got nothing. Plus, there's the book signing event for Fractured Memories."
"Ah, the trials of Olivia Price, New York's rising literary star," Carter teased. "Meanwhile, us mere mortals are just happy to have jobs."
I shot him a look. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not," he conceded. "But you'll figure it out. You always do."
Two years out of college with honors in English, and here I was—not the best author in New York, but making a name for myself. My first novel had performed well enough to earn me a second contract, but with success came expectations. Expectations I wasn't sure I could meet.
"I just need to focus," I said, more to myself than to Carter.
He nodded, pushing himself off the doorframe. "I'll leave you to it. But remember, screaming at the sky rarely produces bestsellers."
I flipped him off as he left, but there was no malice in it. Despite our complicated past, Carter had become something of a friend again. Someone who understood my demons because he'd battled his own.
The bookstore was packed the next evening. Rows of my novels were stacked neatly on tables, my name emblazoned across the covers. Olivia Price in elegant script. A name is becoming recognized in literary circles.
I sat behind a table, smiling until my cheeks hurt, signing copy after copy.
"I loved the way you portrayed grief," one woman told me, clutching my book to her chest.
"The metaphors were exquisite," an older man said as I signed his copy.
Hour after hour, the line moved forward. My hand cramped, but I kept going, fueled by the expressions on readers' faces. This was why I wrote. To connect. To be understood.
Finally, the crowd thinned. The bookstore manager began turning off lights, signaling the event's end. My publisher's representative gave me a thumbs up from across the room. Success.
I gathered my things, rolling my stiff shoulders, when a voice cut through the quieting store.
"Can I get my sign too?"
That voice. That damn voice.
Five years. Five years I'd waited to hear it again. Five years of silence, of wondering, of trying to forget.
I turned slowly, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.
And there he was.
Sebastian Patterson.
Seb.
Standing in the shadows at the edge of the dimming light, tall and lean as ever. His dark hair was shorter now, styled differently. He wore a tailored gray coat over a black shirt. Handsome. So goddamn handsome it hurt to look at him.
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. But he didn't disappear.
My body moved of its own accord. One step. Then another. The store had gone silent except for the click of my heels against the hardwood floor. A single spotlight remained on, somehow finding him in the darkness, illuminating him like he was the main character in some dramatic play.
I stopped in front of him, close enough to smell his cologne—different than what he used to wear, but underneath it, that scent that was uniquely him.
His lips curved into that half-smile I remembered so well. "Olivia—"
My hand moved before I could think. The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed through the quiet store.
His head jerked to the side, eyes wide with shock. Before he could recover, I slapped him again, harder.
"Where the FUCK were you?" I screamed, tears streaming down my face. My voice broke, years of anger and hurt pouring out. "Five years, Sebastian! Five fucking years!"
He didn't move to touch his reddening cheek. Just stood there, taking it, those blue eyes locked on mine.
"You promised," I continued, jabbing my finger into his chest. "You promised you would write you would send your address but nothing. NOTHING! And now you show up at my book signing like everything's normal?"
"I can explain—" he started, reaching for my arm.
I jerked away. "Don't touch me. You don't get to touch me."
"Liv, please—"
"Don't call me that. You lost the right to call me that."
His face crumpled slightly, but I refused to feel sympathy. Five years of silence. Five years of wondering if he was even alive.
"Fuck you," I spat, turning on my heel. "Fuck you and your explanations."
I started walking away, but his hand caught my wrist, gentle but firm. "Olivia, wait. Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
I yanked my arm free. "No. You don't get to decide when we talk. Not anymore."
"Is everything okay here?"
Carter appeared from nowhere, looking between us with confused eyes that quickly narrowed with suspicion. "What's happening?"
He turned to me, protective. "Are you with him again?"
"Yes," I lied, wanting nothing more than to escape. "We were just leaving."
As we walked away, Carter suddenly stopped and turned.
"Seb?" Carter said, his voice shifting to a tone I rarely heard.
Without hesitation, Carter stepped forward and hugged him tightly. I stood frozen, watching them embrace like old friends despite having only met a handful of times in school.
Five years had passed since they'd seen each other, yet something unspoken passed between them.
"How have you been?" Carter asked quietly.
And they started the conversation as if they were best friends meeting after a longgg separation. I rolled my eyes. Boysss
I shifted uncomfortably, aware they were referencing that conversation—the one I knew happened but never learned the contents of.
"Let's go," I told Carter, taking his hand firmly.
As we left, I glanced back to find Seb still watching me, a knowing smile on his face that he knew I was lying about me and carter being together.
The next morning, I sat in Caffeine Chronicles, my favorite coffee shop on the Lower East Side, trying to focus on my laptop screen. The words kept blurring together.
"Mind if I join you?"
I didn't need to look up to know who it was. That voice would haunt me till the day I died.
"How did you find me?" I asked without raising my head.
"You mentioned this place in your book," Seb said quietly. "Page 217. The protagonist comes here to think."
My jaw clenched. Of course he'd remember the exact page. Sebastian had always had that infuriating ability to recall the smallest details.
"What do you want?" I finally looked up at him.
He stood there, holding two cups, wearing a navy sweater that made his eyes look impossibly blue. He placed one cup in front of me—a vanilla latte with an extra shot, exactly how I'd always taken it.
"Five minutes," he said. "Just five minutes."
I should have told him to leave. I should have poured the coffee over his perfect hair. Instead, I gestured to the empty chair across from me.
He sat, his movements careful, like I was a wild animal he was afraid of spooking.
"You look good," he said softly.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't act like we're old friends catching up. Tell me why you're here, or leave."
He nodded, accepting my terms. "I read your book. Three times, actually."
"Sebastian—"
"It's about us, isn't it? Parts of it, at least."
I shut my laptop with more force than necessary. "My writing isn't up for discussion. Not with you."
"You're angry. You have every right to be."
"Damn right I do." I leaned forward. "You disappeared, Seb. No calls, no texts, no emails. Nothing. For five years. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
Pain etched itself across his features. "I do, actually. Because every day I was away from you was torture."
"Then why?" My voice cracked embarrassingly. "Why did you not contact me, you promised?"
"Because I was broken, Liv." His voice was barely above a whisper. "More broken than you knew. Then I knew. And I couldn't drag you down with me."
"That wasn't your choice to make."
"Maybe not. But I made it anyway." He ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit I remembered all too well. "I was diagnosed with PTSD after... after what happened."
"The nightmares got worse after I left," he continued. "I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. I was prescribed medication that made me feel like a zombie. I started therapy, but it was like pulling teeth in the beginning. I couldn't talk about it. About him. and Eve was there I had seen how I was dragging her I couldn't drag you too"
"You should have told me," I said. "We could have faced it together."
"That's just it, Liv. You were already carrying so much of my weight. Your entire life had become about taking care of me. I saw it happening, saw how exhausted you were, even though you tried to hide it."
I wanted to deny it, but I couldn't. Those months had been brutal. Loving someone through that kind of trauma had nearly broken me too.
"So instead of talking to me about it, you just decided to not contact me?" The bitterness in my voice was unmistakable.
"I went to a residential treatment center in Arizona. Specializing in trauma therapy. I was supposed to be there for three months." He looked down at his untouched coffee. "I ended up staying for nearly two years."
Two years. While I'd been frantically searching for answers, he'd been across the country.
"And the other three years?" I challenged.
"The healing wasn't linear. I'd make progress, then backslide. Start a job, then have a panic attack so severe I couldn't leave my apartment for days. I kept thinking I needed to be completely fixed before I could come back to you." His mouth curved in a sad smile. "Took me too long to realize I'll never be completely fixed. Just... differently assembled."
Despite myself, I felt my anger softening around the edges. But I wasn't ready to forgive. Not yet.
"Why now? Why show up at my signing?"
"I've been in New York for six months," he admitted. "Working with a trauma counselor here, getting stabilized. I saw the announcement for your signing and... I couldn't stay away anymore."
Six months. He'd been in the same city as me for half a year and never reached out until now.
"You could have called."
"What would I have said, Liv? 'Hey, it's the guy who abandoned you when things got tough. Want to grab coffee?'" He shook his head. "I needed to see you. To explain in person."
"And now you have." I gathered my things, unable to sit there any longer. "Goodbye, Sebastian."
"Olivia, wait—"
"No." I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "You don't get to disappear for five years and then expect me to welcome you back with open arms. It doesn't work that way."
I left him sitting there, his untouched coffee growing cold.
The next day, a delivery arrived at my apartment. A first edition of Pride and Prejudice—my favorite book. No note, but I knew who it was from.
The day after, it was a pendant necklace with a small typewriter charm—a reference to the gift I'd once mentioned wanting but could never find.
Every day brought something new. A rare vinyl record of the obscure band we'd discovered together in school. A jar filled with handwritten quotes—365 of them, one for each day of the year. A potted orchid—my favorite flower—with care instructions detailed in his precise handwriting.
He was pursuing me with the same single-minded determination that had characterized our college romance. The Sebastian I'd known had never done anything halfway.
When he wasn't sending gifts, he was appearing. At my favorite bookstore, browsing poetry collections. At the park where I took my morning runs, sitting on a bench with two coffees. Outside the building where I taught a weekly creative writing workshop, waiting with an umbrella when the forecast predicted rain.
Each time, he'd try to talk to me. Each time, I'd give him a little more of my attention. A minute. Then five. Then ten.
He told me about the treatment center. About the group therapy sessions where he'd finally spoken about his Dad without breaking down. About the nightmares that still came, but less frequently now. About the coping mechanisms he'd learned.
I learned he'd been working as a photographer for a travel magazine—a job that let him control his environment while still creating art. He showed me his portfolio on his phone: landscapes, cityscapes, all hauntingly beautiful. His dream of becoming lawyer can not be finished because its too damn hard to take cases for someone who will broke down
The Sebastian who'd returned wasn't the same one who'd left. He was both stronger and more fragile, marked by experiences I hadn't shared.
A week after he first appeared at my signing, we ended up at a small Italian restaurant in the Village. Not quite a date, but something close to it.
"Do you think you'll ever forgive me?" he asked over pasta, his eyes vulnerable.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I understand why didn't contact me. But understanding isn't the same as forgiving."
"Fair enough." He twirled pasta around his fork. "
That night, he walked me to my door. He didn't try to kiss me, didn't ask to come in. Just squeezed my hand gently and said, "Goodnight, Olivia."
Progress. Slow, cautious progress.
Three days later, everything fell apart.
We were walking through Washington Square Park when we heard someone fighting and glass was scattered everywhere and it was broken in other person head The sound echoed off the buildings, sharp and sudden.
Seb froze, his entire body going rigid. His breathing turned rapid and shallow, his eyes glazing over, seeing something I couldn't.
"Seb?" I touched his arm. "Sebastian, you're okay. You're in New York. With me."
But he was somewhere else entirely. Lost in a memory of twisted metal and shattered glass.
"I need to get out of here," he gasped, jerking away from my touch. "I can't—I need to—"
He turned and walked away rapidly, his movements mechanical.
"Seb, wait!" I hurried after him. "Let me help you."
"No." He stopped, not looking at me. "I'm not... I'm not better, Olivia. Not really. I've just gotten better at hiding it."
"You don't have to hide it from me," I said softly.
He shook his head, still not facing me. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come back. You've built this amazing life here. You don't need my darkness shadowing it."
"That's not true—"
"It is." He finally turned, and the despair in his eyes took my breath away. "I thought I was ready. I'm not. You deserve someone whole, not someone who falls apart at a car backfiring."
"Sebastian, please—"
"I'm sorry for coming back into your life. For disrupting everything. I thought..." He swallowed hard. "I thought I could be the man you deserved. I was wrong."
Before I could respond, he was walking away, his tall figure disappearing into the crowd.
This time, I didn't follow.
That night, Carter found me on my balcony, a bottle of wine nearly empty beside me.
"Want to talk about it?" he asked, settling into the chair next to mine.
"Not really."
"I know you still have feelings for seb" carter told me
I didn't have an answer for that.
"Look," Carter said, unusually serious, "I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. Not even me, back when we were a thing. If he's the one, fight for him. But make sure he's fighting for himself too. Otherwise, you'll both drown."
With that surprising bit of wisdom, he left me to my thoughts and the remaining wine.
The next morning, I made a decision. I would find Sebastian one last time. We would talk—really talk. And then, whatever happened, I would accept it.
But when I called the hotel where he was staying, they informed me Mr. Patterson had checked out early that morning.
Panic seized me. He was leaving again. Disappearing without a proper goodbye. History repeating itself.
I grabbed my keys and phone, rushing out the door. I had to get to the airport. Had to stop him before it was too late.
The taxi ride felt eternal, every red light an eternity. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
JFK was a maze of terminals and crowds. I didn't even know which airline he was flying. Didn't know his destination. I was searching blindly, desperately.
Terminal after terminal, I scanned faces, looking for his. Nothing. I tried calling his cell—straight to voicemail.
After two hours of frantic searching, I collapsed onto a bench, defeat washing over me. He was gone. Again. This time, I hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.
Tears streamed down my face as I made my way back to the taxi stand. The driver who picked me up didn't comment on my red eyes or the occasional sniffle.
"Where to, miss?" he asked.
I gave him my address, then leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city blur beyond my tears.
When we pulled up to my building, I paid the driver and trudged inside, feeling hollowed out. The elevator ride to my floor was silent, my thoughts too loud.
I fumbled with my keys at my door, dropping them twice before managing to unlock it. When I pushed it open, I froze.
My apartment had been transformed. Hundreds of tiny lights hung from the ceiling, creating a galaxy of stars in my living room. White and purple orchids—my favorites—filled every surface. And on my coffee table sat a stack of leather-bound journals.
"Olivia."
I turned toward the voice. Sebastian stood by the window, nervous energy radiating from him.
"You're here," I whispered, unable to believe my eyes. "I thought... I went to the airport. I thought you'd left."
"I almost did," he admitted. "I packed my bags, checked out of the hotel. Got as far as the airport."
"What stopped you?"
"You." He stepped closer. "Everything in me wanted to run. To protect you from my damage. But then I realized that running is what caused all this pain in the first place."
I stayed rooted to the spot, afraid to move, afraid this might be a dream.
"These are for you," he said, gesturing to the journals on the table. "I've been writing to you. Every day for five years. I never had the courage to send them, but... they're all yours. Every thought, every struggle, every triumph. Everything I couldn't say in person."
I moved to the table, touching the top journal with trembling fingers. The date on the cover was from five years ago—the month after he'd left.
"Seb—"
"I'm not healed," he interrupted, voice thick with emotion. "I don't know if I ever will be completely. The nightmares still come sometimes. Certain scenes still trigger flashbacks. But I'm working on it. Every day."
He took another step toward me. "It was hell, Liv. Sitting in that room with the counselor, having to remember everything. Having to describe the sound of the blow that hit me the glass that hit me, belt boots hitting me . me sleeping with rats to get away from him." His voice broke.
"The counselor made me go through it again and again. Said the only way past the trauma was through it. There were days I wanted to die rather than keep reliving it." He swallowed hard. "But I kept going. For myself. And for you. Even when I thought I'd never be well enough to come back to you, I wanted to be a man who deserved your love—even from a distance."
I opened the first journal, saw his familiar handwriting filling the pages.
Dear Liv,
I left you today. The hardest thing I've ever done. You were sleeping when I went, your hair spread across the pillow like it always is in the morning. I nearly broke watching you breathe. Nearly crawled back into bed and abandoned my plan. But I can't keep destroying you along with myself...
I closed the journal, unable to read more through my tears.
"I understand if it's too late," Sebastian said softly. "If I've hurt you too deeply to repair. But I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. My breath caught.
"This isn't how I planned it," he said with a nervous laugh. "I had a speech prepared. Something poetic about second chances and time and how some loves are worth waiting for."
He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a vintage-looking oval diamond surrounded by tiny sapphires. "It reminded me of your eyes," he explained. "The way they change color depending on the light."
Sebastian Patterson, the boy I'd loved in school, the man who'd broken my heart, the soul who'd fought his way back to me, sank down on one knee.
"Olivia Price," he said, voice steady despite the tears in his eyes, "I have loved you through the darkest days of my life. I will love you through whatever comes next—good or bad, easy or hard."
He held the ring up, the stones catching the light from the tiny stars above us. "I don't deserve you. I know that. But if you'll have me, I promise to spend every day trying to be worthy of your love. Will you marry me?"
Time seemed to stand still. In that frozen moment, I saw everything—our past, painful and beautiful; our possible future, uncertain but full of potential.
"Yes," I whispered, tears streaming freely down my face. "Yes, you idiot."
His smile could have lit up the entire city. He slid the ring onto my trembling finger, then stood and pulled me into his arms.
"I'm still angry with you," I murmured against his chest.
"I know." He pressed his lips to my hair.
"And we have a lot to work through."
"I know that too."
I pulled back to look at him, really look at him. The Sebastian before me was different from the boy I'd known. There were new lines around his eyes, a seriousness to his mouth that hadn't been there before. But the essence of him—the soul that had connected with mine all those years ago—remained unchanged.
"No more running," I said firmly. "No matter how bad it gets. We face it together."
"No more running," he agreed, cupping my face in his hands. "I'm home now, Liv. For good."
When he kissed me, it felt like coming home after a long journey. Familiar and new all at once. The taste of salt from our mingled tears. The solidness of his body against mine. The promise of tomorrow.
Outside, New York City continued its relentless pace. Inside, in our private galaxy of tiny lights, time slowed to a perfect moment of reunion and redemption.
Sebastian Patterson had left once. But as his arms tightened around me, I knew with absolute certainty that he would never leave again. Some loves are worth fighting for, worth waiting for, worth the pain and the healing that follows.
And ours was one of them.