Saturday, 5 PM.
The clock ticked louder than usual in Amira's living room. She looked at her reflection in the mirror one last time. She wasn't dressed to impress — just a soft blue blouse and black jeans.
But her heart was louder than her heels.
This wasn't a date.
It was a conversation.
One hour. That's all she had promised him.
She grabbed her car keys and left.
The Café
David was already seated when she arrived.
He stood up quickly, nervous, unsure whether to hug her or wait. Amira walked to the table and sat down without a word. He followed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Just the soft clink of cups around them, and the hum of quiet music.
"You came," David said finally.
"I said I would," she replied calmly.
He nodded, then smiled sadly. "You still have that voice that makes everything else fade away."
"Don't do that," Amira said sharply. "We're not here for charm."
David sighed. "Okay. No charm. Just truth."
He looked at her, eyes heavy with regret.
"I left because I was scared," he began. "Not of you. Of me."
Amira blinked. "Scared of what, David? Of love?"
"No," he replied. "Of failing you. Of not being enough for the kind of woman you were becoming."
She laughed — but there was no joy in it. "So, you left me to avoid disappointing me. That's your story?"
"I didn't know how to grow beside you," he whispered. "I felt small next to your fire. And instead of becoming more, I ran."
Amira leaned back, arms folded.
"That fire," she said slowly, "was lit for us. Not just me."
David lowered his eyes.
"I know that now."
She stared at him for a moment, then asked the question that had lived in her chest for years.
"Was there someone else?"
He looked up, shocked.
"No. Never," he said firmly. "It was never about another woman. I swear on everything I have left."
"Then why didn't you call? Not even once. Not even to say goodbye?"
"I thought silence would hurt less than an explanation."
She nodded slowly. "It didn't."
David reached into his coat pocket and brought out something small.
It was a worn-out chain — hers.
The one she gave him on his 30th birthday.
"I carried this everywhere," he said. "Even when I left. Even when I hated myself."
She looked at it, but didn't reach for it.
"I've rebuilt my life," she said. "Piece by piece. I cried, I broke, I healed. But I'm not the girl who begged you to stay anymore."
"I know," he said, with pride and sadness in his eyes. "You're stronger now. More graceful. And even harder to reach."
Amira checked her phone. 5:57 PM.
"One hour," she said.
David nodded, standing. "Thank you. For coming. For listening."
She stood too.
As she turned to leave, he said, "Can I ask you something?"
She stopped.
"If there's even one small part of you that still wonders about us... would you let me try again?"
She didn't turn around.
She just replied, "Right now, I'm still trying to remember how to forgive you. Let's start there."
And she walked out.
He sat back down, heart heavy, but lighter than before.
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't say no either.
He had hope now.
And that was more than he had yesterday.