I really wouldn't admit it, but Ryan was still on my mind.
It was a week after that fake proposal, the week since I walked down from him and his family, trying to straight out the muddle of confusion and hurt. I needed a little space to sort through it all, and I was absolutely resolved about this. Still, some part of me could not stop replaying the look in his eyes- the desperation; the regret- when I walked away.
He respected my wish for space but bombarded me with phone calls and messages, even waited outside my apartment with flowers and a handwritten note that was so painful I couldn't bring myself to read it. Well, he didn't quit, and I knew he wouldn't give me up, not without at least trying to take back what he broke.
Indeed, I wanted to hate him for it. I wanted to throw tantrums at him for toying with my emotions and allowing me to believe that what we had was true- *that we had been real.* But there was something in him: it was the way he looked at me with soft eyes as though I were the only significant thing on this earth. And I could tell that he very much meant it that way. Maybe that was why all these things were so tricky to unravel.
Not ready for such things, however. So I drifted, and every time he attempted to come near, I conveniently found a new excuse to run. Until today.
The message was as simple as it got. Can we talk? Time: Tonight, after work. Just the two of us. No distractions, no families, no false proposals.
And somehow, even when the whole world in me wanted to be furious and icy cold, I said yes. Because maybe, just maybe, I needed this as well.
There was Ryan, looking a little messy, however with that earnest expression which once made my heartbeat skip; He stood on the other side of the opened door, with a bottle of wine in hand, and for a second, I forgot the reason for my bitterness.
"Hi," he said softly, in a low voice. "This is for us. I thought...maybe we could have a glass while we talk."
I stepped aside to let him in, trying to contain every emotion racing through me. "Thanks," I muttered, failing at anything beyond that. All that weight from the misery of that week was hanging, unspoken, unresolved, between us. He was here-physically, at least-but emotionally? Goodness knows.
Ryan placed the bottle on the kitchen counter and opened it, pouring into two glasses before handing one to me. The silence grew thick and uncomfortable before he finally continued.
"I'm sorry, Emily. I can't keep doing this." His voice cracked and the effort to keep himself composed made it visible. "I can't keep pretending it's okay. That what happened between us was just some big misunderstanding. It wasn't. It was me messing up, and I can't fix it unless you let me try."
I had been staring at that glass; swirled it around, accompanied it with wine, but no one was really even looking. "I don't know if I can just forget what happened, Ryan. It felt like everything we built... it wasn't... it just wasn't there. Just a big show for your family. Everyone else's. And I didn't even get to be part of it, 'cause... that's what hurts most."
He stepped closer, but not too close. He was almost impatient, waiting for me to say something. "I know," he finally said, "I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry... It's just, you know, I never wanted you to feel like that. You meant a lot to me, Emily. Yet suddenly with all that pressure from my family, it overshadowed everything. I should have trusted you. I should have talked to you first instead of hiding behind the easy way out."
He spent more time wondering which one he wanted for his peace of mind; there was probably a whole chunk of silence before him. I hoped to keep that anger alive for him. Want to maintain that distance so that he experiences the sharpness of my wound. But some fragments, the ones that still stay on his side, tend to believe him. Just was unsure whether it could.
"I course do not know what to say to you right now," I admitted, a small voice. "Maybe I need a little time to sort this out. It could be a matter of understanding between us so I could pursue that idea of whether we could rebuild what we had... or we just take it that it was something I concocted in my imagination."
Then Ryan wanted to take my hand, and this time, I did not flinch. His touch was warm and grounded, and I hated how I yielded so easily to it. "I cannot ask for anything more for now," he said softly. "All I am asking is a chance to put it right-a chance for us to be real. For us to have a future, if you'll let me prove it."
Again, the room fell into silence, but this time, there was nothing uncomfortable about it. The air was still pregnant with tension, but that tension felt more like a soft hum in the background-the calm before the storm.
Ryan cut the distance and paused for a deep breath. "But I thought maybe this could be a time for us to have dinner." Just the two of us. No expectations. No pressure."
I hesitated for a moment, but then I nodded. "Okay." I surprised myself by how easily the word came out. "Dinner sounds nice."
There was not much action between us at dinner, but we did not sit in awkward silence. The whole meal was accompanied by banter about our small lives and things that had crept into our week moments—such small events to pay attention to but now bore the imprints of an incredible cumulative weight of experiencing life with another. I could feel the burden of the last week slowly lift, bit by bit, as we moved through the motions of something familiar. Something real, even if I wasn't ready to admit it.
At one point, while we were cleaning up, Ryan turned to me, his face soft and vulnerable, like, "I've missed this," voice just above a whisper, and, "I've missed us." The way we were.
My heart was in a tight knot. But I took no action. All I'd managed to do was look at him and pray that somehow he meant it. That the guy sitting in front of me was still the same person who once made me feel like I was enough just the way I was.
The TV was muted with our disjointed couch sitting distance after dinner-sinking but significant apart. He then tried to grab my hand again, this time more confidently, threading his fingers through mine. I did not pull away.
And then he kissed me without any more words.