Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~7 min read
POV: Rory
Three months since the miscarriage.
Three months since I moved out.
Three months of Dominic trying to win me back.
Flowers every week.
Letters every few days.
Texts every morning: “Good morning. I love you. I’m here when you’re ready.”
And I still don’t know if I can forgive him.
“You have to talk to him eventually,” Priya says.
We’re having coffee in her living room.
I’ve been staying here for months now.
She’s been patient. But I can tell she’s getting tired of playing referee.
“Why do I have to talk to him?” I ask.
“Because you still love him. And because he’s drowning without you.”
“Good.”
“Is it? Because you’re drowning too.”
She’s right.
I am.
I’ve been going to therapy.
Dr. Morgan. Specializes in grief and trauma.
She’s helped me process the miscarriage.
The anger at Dominic.
The guilt I carry for losing the baby.
“Do you think the stress caused the miscarriage?” I asked her last week.
“Rory, we’ve talked about this. Miscarriages happen. Often for no reason. The stress didn’t help, but it’s not your fault. Or Dominic’s. Or Celeste’s. It just… happened.”
“But if he had chosen sooner—”
“You can ‘what if’ yourself to death. But it won’t change what happened. The question is: what do you want now?”
What do I want?
I want the baby back.
I want to trust Dominic again.
I want my life back.
But I can’t have any of that.
I’m teaching a class on a Tuesday when I see him.
Through the window.
Dominic.
Standing in the parking lot.
Watching.
He does this sometimes.
Just shows up. Doesn’t approach. Just… watches.
It should feel creepy.
Instead, it just makes me sad.
After class, I walk to my car.
He’s still there.
I could ignore him.
Get in my car and leave.
But I’m tired of running.
“Dominic.”
He looks up. Startled.
Like he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him.
“Rory. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”
“Stalk me?”
“I just wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Neither do you.”
He laughs. It’s hollow.
“Yeah. I’m not.”
We stand there. Awkward.
“Celeste’s divorce was finalized,” he says.
“I know. She sent me a letter.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And she’s a better person than either of us gave her credit for.”
“She is.”
More silence.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. The kiss. The indecision. The baby. All of it.”
“I know you are.”
“Do you forgive me?”
I take a breath.
“I don’t know.”
“What would it take? For you to know?”
“Time. Proof. I don’t know, Dom. You broke my heart. Multiple times. You kissed her. You made me fight for you while you sat on the fence. I lost our baby because of the stress. How do I trust you again?”
“I don’t know. But I want to try. Please. Give me a chance to prove I’ve changed.”
“Have you? Changed?”
“I’ve been in therapy. Working on myself. Figuring out why I couldn’t choose. Why I let guilt control me.”
“And what did you figure out?”
“That I was afraid. Of losing you. Of failing Celeste. Of making the wrong choice. So I made no choice. And in doing that, I hurt everyone.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
I look at him.
Really look at him.
He’s lost weight. Looks exhausted. Broken.
Part of me wants to reach out. Comfort him.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
“I need more time,” I say.
“How much?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t just jump back into this. I need to know I can trust you. That you won’t do this again.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
“You can’t swear that. No one can. But you can show me. Over time. Consistently. That you choose me. Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. But because you genuinely want to be with me.”
“I do want that—”
“Then prove it.”
He nods.
“I will. However long it takes.”
I drive home—to Priya’s—and cry.
Because I love him.
God, I still love him so much.
But love isn’t enough.
Not without trust.
And I don’t know if I can trust him again.
Dr. Morgan asks me the next session: “What would it take for you to trust him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. Specifically. What actions would prove he’s trustworthy?”
I think.
“Consistency. Showing up. Not just with flowers and letters. But with actual change. With therapy. With patience. With not pressuring me.”
“Has he been doing those things?”
“Yes. He’s been in therapy. He gives me space when I ask. He’s patient.”
“So he’s proving himself already.”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re still hesitant.”
“Because I’m scared. What if I take him back and he does it again? What if Celeste comes back? What if he realizes he made a mistake?”
“Those are all possibilities. But they’re also fears. Not certainties.”
“How do I know the difference?”
“You don’t. That’s what trust is. Choosing to believe someone despite the risk.”
That night, I read through all of Dominic’s letters.
There are dozens.
All handwritten.
All vulnerable.
One from two weeks ago:
Rory,
I know you’re not ready to see me. And I respect that. But I need you to know—I’m not giving up.
Not because I’m stubborn. But because you’re worth fighting for.
I’ve been in therapy. Unpacking why I couldn’t choose. Why I let guilt paralyze me. Why I kissed her.
The truth is, I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing Celeste. Scared of making the wrong choice.
But in trying to protect everyone, I hurt everyone. Especially you.
I’m sorry for the kiss. For the indecision. For making you fight for me when I should have been fighting for you.
I’m sorry about the baby. I think about it every day. About what we lost. About the future we could have had.
I’m sorry for all of it.
But I’m not sorry I fell in love with you. That’s the one thing I’d never take back.
When you’re ready, I’ll be here.
However long it takes.
I love you.
Dominic
I cry reading it.
Because it’s real. And raw. And everything I needed to hear.
But is it enough?
I call Isabel. My best friend from work.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell her.
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’s changed?”
“I think he’s trying.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“Fear. What if I’m wrong? What if he hurts me again?”
“Then he does. And you survive. Like you’ve survived everything else.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You can. You’re stronger than you think, Rory.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“That’s because you’re grieving. But grief doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Three days later, I text Dominic.
Me: “Can we talk? In person?”
He responds immediately.
Dominic: “Yes. When? Where?”
Me: “Saturday. The park near our—your—house. 2pm.”
Dominic: “I’ll be there.”
Me: “Just talking. I’m not promising anything.”
Dominic: “I understand. Thank you for giving me a chance.”
I stare at the phone.
Am I making a mistake?
Or am I finally ready to heal?
I don’t know.
But I guess I’m about to find out.
END OF CHAPTER 25
Reader Reactions