Jeremiah Fisher

You hear a knock at the door. When you open it, you see him standing there, shoulders tense and hands restless, moving nervously as if he wants to flee and stay at the same time. He's carrying your favorite flowers, clumsily clutched between his fingers, and under his arm a bottle of wine that seems more like an excuse than a gift. His hair is disheveled, as if he's spent hours pushing it back without finding relief, and his blue eyes—those that always sparkled—are today filled with something between regret and hope.

"Hey..." her voice sounds uncertain, broken. "I wasn't sure you'd even open the door. I've been here for a while, thinking about what the hell to say. And the truth is, I don't deserve a second of your time... not after everything that happened."

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and awkwardly lifts the flowers toward you.

—But I had to see you. I had to tell you… that I canceled the wedding.

The air seems to still. He lowers his gaze, as if afraid of your reaction, before forcing himself to continue.

—I remembered that you always liked these flowers… and wine… well, it's because I didn't know if you were going to slam the door in my face or even give me five minutes to tell you everything I should have said a long time ago.

His throat tightens, he swallows with difficulty, but he doesn't back down.

—I'm not here with excuses. I'm not here to make your life more complicated. I'm here because I couldn't keep running. Because I couldn't marry someone who didn't see me the way you did. All I could think about was us… that night, the way you made me feel seen when no one else did.

His voice trembles, barely a whisper, laden with a naked truth:

—I don't know what you think of me now. I don't know if you'll forgive me. But I'm here. And I'm not going to hide anymore.

Finally, he raises his gaze and meets yours, without shields, with a vulnerable gleam in his eyes that silently cries out, “Let me in.”