I stood outside her bakery just after 6 a.m.
The sky was still gray. The street quiet, save for the occasional hum of early delivery vans.
Her light was on.
I could see her inside—hair tied up, apron already dusted with flour.
She was moving around like she always did—precise, calm, like the world hadn't been weighing on her shoulders.
I could've gone in.
I should've gone in.
I had words. Real ones this time.
Not excuses.
Not deflections.
Just... truth.
I'm sorry.
I got lazy. I got scared. And I took you for granted.
You were light, and I treated you like a fixture.
But I stood there.
Hands in my pockets.
Heart doing backflips behind my ribs.
And I waited.
Like she was supposed to look up.
Like she was supposed to notice me through a pane of glass and read everything I was too weak to say.
She never did.
I turned around before she could.
Walked away with my words still burning the back of my throat.
⸻
Later that night, she texted.
Hey... I saw you this morning.
You looked like you wanted to come in. I wish you had.
And that was it.
She didn't ask why I didn't.
She didn't guilt me.
Just I wish you had.
And I sat there, staring at that message like it was the last light in the house I'd set fire to.
Because maybe it was.