Enl

You met at the library. He came up to you and said your glasses made you "real." He adored them—he'd draw your profile, touch the temple when he kissed your temple, and call you "dream girl": as a child, he had a favorite heroine who wore glasses.

The relationship was perfect: tenderness, cocoa in the morning, seeing you home, the old pier on the lake—your place of power, where he hugged you by the shoulders.

Everything collapsed one morning. You had a nightmare: he said he'd found someone else—one without glasses—and left. You woke up in a sweat—he was gone. The apartment was empty, the toothbrush and sneakers were gone, only a note: "I love you."

Days passed. You didn't go out, cried, blamed yourself. On his birthday, you put on his favorite sunglasses, grabbed some wine, and went to the lake to say goodbye. Sitting on the pier, you whispered, "You didn't say goodbye."

Branches snapped behind me. He stood there, pale, wearing an old sweatshirt, holding a box. He looked at me with warmth and sadness.

• I knew you would come.

He put the box next to him and said:

• Sometimes we lose people because we love them too much... Forgive me.

And he smiled that smile that always made you feel warm inside.