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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Michaels Mess - 4. Chapter 4

The first few shifts at the coffee shop were both great and difficult. Throw a 100-page contract on my desk, and I could breeze through it in no time. Put me in front of a tough client, and I could get them to agree to anything. But have me make coffee with anything more complicated than what I had back at the apartment? Well, that was another beast entirely.

I must’ve ruined at least two or three dozen coffees that first week. Each time, Roger would come out, shake his head, and patiently show me how it was done. He was patient most of the time, but when he got gruff, it felt like I was back in school, getting scolded by a strict teacher.

“Michael… it’s not that difficult. You’re not operating a nuclear reactor,” he’d say, exasperated but not unkind, before demonstrating the technique yet again.

Roger usually worked in the back with the baker, making the day’s fresh goods, while Janice handled the front. But that day, Janice was off meeting with suppliers, so it was just Roger, me, and the rest of the team running the place.

I’m not going to lie—learning how to make coffee wasn’t easy, and I can’t count how many times I thought about quitting. But I’d run from my mistakes before, far bigger than screwing up a latte. This time, I wasn’t going to let failure send me packing, no matter how many times Roger had to show me the ropes. I’d already paid for my past mistakes; I wasn’t about to pile up more by bailing on this chance for a fresh start.

Things were slowly getting easier, but it was clear that barista wasn’t exactly in my professional wheelhouse. I was happy to learn, though, and besides, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. Anyone who’d dig into my past would find out about what happened, and I’d be disqualified anyway—so why even bother pretending I could do something else?

I usually got home pretty late in the evenings. What should've been eight-hour days routinely turned into ten- or twelve-hour shifts. By the time I got home, David would be getting ready for bed. It was odd seeing someone so regimented. He didn’t have anyone telling him when to get up or when to sleep, yet he kept to a strict schedule. He had been making dinner for me, which was awfully nice of him, considering how much he valued things being in their proper place. He’d mention it from time to time.

Weekends were a welcome relief from the weekday grind. I’d gotten used to sleeping in, and by the time I finally rolled out of bed, David would already be gone. He usually spent his Saturdays baking or wandering the local farmer’s market for fresh ingredients. “Gotta recharge,” he’d say with a wry smile when I asked about his plans. And though I respected his need for space, curiosity about his weekend habits started to nag at me.

One morning, as I stumbled into the kitchen, David was measuring flour for a batch of cookies. He glanced up with a friendly grin.

“Hey, I’m heading to the farmer’s market tomorrow,” he said. “Want to come along?”

I hesitated, caught off guard by the invitation, but something about the idea of tagging along felt… right. It was a chance to see more of his world.

“Sure,” I said, a little awkwardly. “I’d like that.”

And just like that, my weekends began to look different—maybe less like an escape, and more like an opportunity to get to know David in ways I hadn’t before.

On those weekends where David wanted to be alone he would usually leave early in the morning and I’d lounge around the house for a few hours before getting ready and heading out to explore. I would find a new neighborhood or part of the city to visit. With a job in hand, the exploring felt more purposeful—it made me feel like this place was starting to feel like home.

I started going to a local bar on weekends, hoping to meet new people, but it never felt right. I tried a few gay bars too, but nothing clicked. Maybe the guilt over what I’d done was holding me back, or maybe I just wasn’t ready to dive back into the dating scene. I’d downloaded a few apps and had a couple of hook-ups, but none of them satisfied me. After a few of those hollow encounters, I gave up, realizing I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for a real relationship—at least not yet.

And in the quieter moments, when the loneliness caught up with me, I found myself missing something unexpected: the stability I once had with Sarah. Even though I was cheating on her, even though our life was built on secrets, there was a routine there—a sense of familiarity and security I didn’t have now. Ironically, that was what I craved most.

Some weekends, David would join me, which I looked forward to. He knew the city better than I did, and together we discovered hidden gems—quaint restaurants tucked away on side streets, art galleries showcasing local talent, and cozy cafes perfect for long, slow mornings. We spent hours wandering through the MET, trying to make sense of the modern art pieces that left us both scratching our heads, and discussing the beauty of old paintings that seemed to speak to us in ways words couldn't. We’d visit parks, and when the weather was still warm, we’d stop for ice cream, laughing as we tried to pick the best flavor from the endless options. I never knew how much I needed someone to show me the city until David was there with me, guiding me through it all.

One evening, as David and I were getting back home, Mama Loretta stopped us by the entrance of the building. She beamed at us both, her eyes crinkling in that warm, familiar way. She was like the den mother around here—everyone knew and adored her.

“Hey, Mama Loretta,” David said, leaning in for a quick hug. “You look good. Everything okay?”

She patted his arm. “All good, sweetheart. Just getting by, you know how it is. How was your day?”

“Long,” he admitted with a grin. “But it’s always nice to see you at the end of it.”

She chuckled, then turned to me. “Michael, I need some help with something in my apartment,” she said in her firm, no-nonsense tone.

David shot me a smile. “Sure, I’ll meet you back at our place,” he said. “Save me from the heavy lifting next time,” he added teasingly to Mama Loretta.

She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. “Boy, I might just take you up on that.”

As David headed upstairs, Mama Loretta tugged gently on my sleeve and led me down the hall to her place. I couldn’t help but wonder what she had in mind—but the way she smiled made me think whatever it was, it wouldn’t be so bad.

“What do you need help with?” I asked, stepping into her apartment.

Mama Loretta’s apartment felt like stepping into a cozy, time-worn haven. Soft light filtered through lace curtains she’d likely sewn herself, illuminating shelves lined with old family photos—some black-and-white, others fading Polaroids. A plush, floral-patterned sofa anchored the living room, its cushions bearing the slight sag of two decades’ worth of stories and secrets. The scent of warm spices from the kitchen clung to the air, as though a pot of homemade sauce had only just been turned off. A crocheted afghan—worn but clearly cherished—was draped over the arm of an overstuffed armchair, next to a side table cluttered with dog-eared cookbooks and a half-completed crossword puzzle. On the walls, pictures of a young man (her son, no doubt) and one of her late husband sat in frames that looked as old as the memories they carried. Every corner of the apartment spoke of a life well-lived: plants thriving on windowsills, knickknacks collected over the years, and the gentle hum of a radio playing easy-listening tunes. It was clear this wasn’t merely a place to crash—this was her sanctuary, the space she’d lovingly shaped for over twenty years.

She smiled knowingly. “Nothing. Just needed an excuse to have coffee with me.”

I followed her into the living room, where she had already set out some snacks.

"Sit, Michael. I'll get the coffee." said Mama Loretta

As I sat down, I watched her move around, always busy, always doing something. I wasn’t about to interrupt her—when she had a plan, she was in charge.

She poured the coffee, then turned to me with a directness that made me squirm. “So, you and David spend a lot of time together. I see how he looks at you. You’ve got yourself a good one.”

My heart skipped a beat. “I’m not sure what you mean…” I said cautiously, unsure where this conversation was headed.

She paused, a knowing smile crossing her face. “Oh, come on, Michael. You’re not fooling Mama Loretta here. I’m not blind. I’ve seen how you two get along. He likes you.”

I hesitated. How did I even respond to that? I’d never said anything about being gay to her, or to anyone, really. But her words dug at something in me, a part of me I was trying so hard to hide.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about it,” I murmured.

Mama Loretta laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, Michael. Love’s a tricky thing, but it's better to feel something than nothing at all. Just don’t let it slip away."

I nodded, unsure if I should say anything more. For a moment, we sat in a comfortable silence, both of us lost in our thoughts.

As she sat across from me, the expression on her face softening. “Michael, listen. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. But I see the way David is around you. And I know you’ve been running from something, from a past that’s still haunting you. Whatever it is, it’s eating at you.”

She gave me a knowing look, and for a moment, I just stared at the floor. It was now or never—I couldn’t keep this buried any longer. I wasn’t embarrassed, exactly, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk about it either. Still, there was a gentleness in her eyes that made me believe she would understand.

“I am gay, Mama Loretta,” I said quietly, my voice almost trembling with the admission. “And I think I’m falling for David… but I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship. Not right now. I’m still figuring things out. I just hope you won’t say anything to him.”

She gave me a knowing look, her expression softening with understanding. “Michael, it’s safe with me,” she replied, her voice steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to worry.”

Her words hung in the air, thick with truth. I couldn’t look away from her, even though I felt like I was sinking.

“But, there is more. Right, Michael?” she continued, her voice quieter now, “You’re carrying a heavy load, and it’s breaking you. Don’t you think it’s time to put it down?”

How could she know? Was it that obvious? Was the guilt and shame written all over my face? I’d been running from this for so long—running from Sarah, from my hometown, from everyone I’d ever let down. Maybe it was time to finally talk to someone else. Someone besides my therapist. It was now or never—I couldn’t keep this buried any longer. I was embarrassed—deeply ashamed—by what I’d done and the hurt I’d caused. Still, there was a gentleness in her eyes that made me believe she wouldn’t turn away, no matter how difficult my truth might be. And that small hope was all I needed to find the courage to speak.

The lump in my throat swelled. For the first time in years, I felt like someone was really seeing me. Not the face I put on for the world, not the ‘normal’ version of myself I’d tried to be, but the truth I’d been hiding for so long.

I don’t know what possessed me to tell her everything. I’d kept it bottled up for so long—my therapist was the only one who knew the full story. But somehow, it felt like I could trust Mama Loretta. She’d understand—or at least, that’s what I hoped.

I took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of everything I had kept buried inside. "I was married. To a woman, her name is Sarah. We had three kids. But I left them, I left everything behind. I thought if I just ran away, I could escape... but I was wrong."

I didn’t know why I said that. It just came out, and now I couldn’t take it back. What was I hoping to gain by telling Mama Loretta my story? She was just a woman I’d met a few months ago—what did I think she’d do with my words? I hardly knew her, and yet, at that moment, it felt like she was the only one I could talk to.

How could I tell a complete stranger all of this? How could I just open up about my past, about everything I’d buried for so long? I’d spent years running from the truth, building walls so thick that I never let anyone see the real me. Yet, sitting there with her—her quiet, knowing gaze, the way she seemed to look right past all my defenses—it felt like I had no choice. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t even seem surprised. She just listened.

But what was I really expecting? That somehow, just by speaking the truth, I could undo everything? That it would make the guilt, the shame, the regret go away? Was it her calm presence that made me trust her? Or was it my own desperation to finally face the mess I’d created?

I didn’t know. But in that moment, I found myself hoping, maybe more than anything, that it would make a difference. That telling someone—anyone—would somehow help me start over. But deep down, I wasn’t sure it could.

Mama Loretta leaned forward slightly, her hand gently resting on mine. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was listening. She didn’t judge me.

“I hurt a lot of people,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I made so many mistakes. I ran from my family, my responsibilities, and from the truth. I thought if I just started over, I could make a better life for myself. But it doesn’t work that way. I lost everything—Sarah, my kids, my chance to be a real father. And now, I can’t even face them.”

I paused, my chest tight as I fought the tears. I hadn’t allowed myself to cry in years, but it felt like I was cracking open at that moment. My hands trembled as I wiped my eyes, embarrassed by how vulnerable I was. I continued to bare my heart and soul to Mama Loretta, telling her everything. Things that I couldn’t even tell myself.

Mama Loretta said nothing for a long while. Then she spoke softly. “We all have our battles, Michael. We all carry something we’re not proud of. But running, hiding, it only makes things worse. You can’t run forever.”

But there was more. A lot more. That day, I bared my soul to this stranger, confessing it all: how I cheated on Sarah with other men, how I misused our relationship, how I’d secretly been seeing her brother’s boyfriend, how I’d abused my position in my old career. Every secret, every betrayal spilled out in a rush of words and tears.

Then silence. I wasn’t sure if she was processing everything I’d just confessed or if she was secretly disgusted with me. The quiet stretched on so long that my cheeks burned with shame. I stood up, ready to escape.

“Michael,” Mama Loretta said softly, breaking the hush. “I’m listening.”

I hesitated, hovering by the edge of the couch.

“Sit down,” she continued, her voice gentle yet firm. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

I looked up at her, my vision blurry with tears. “I don’t know if I can fix this. How do I even begin to make things right?”

She smiled gently, her eyes kind. “You start by owning your mistakes, and then you make things right where you can. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about being honest. And that takes courage.”

I nodded, but a wave of doubt still lingered in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it. I’ve hurt too many people. Especially Sarah.”

“You are strong enough, Michael. It won’t be easy, but you can do this.” She stood and walked toward the kitchen, preparing more coffee. “No one said redemption is quick, but it’s yours if you want it.”

I sat there, the weight of her words sinking in. I’d never really owned up to my mistakes. I’d always thought that running away from them would make them disappear, but they never did. They followed me, waiting to be dealt with.

For a long while, Mama Loretta didn’t say anything. She just let me sit with my thoughts, letting the silence settle around us like a heavy blanket. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I wasn’t trying to hide or cover up; I just was.

Finally, she spoke, her voice warm but resolute. “You know, Michael, your past isn’t something you can just pretend never happened. You need to own those mistakes—really own them. Not just in your mind, but with the people you hurt. Acknowledge it all, then learn from it. Only then can you move forward without that weight dragging you down.”

She leaned back in her chair, offering me a gentle smile. “And don’t forget about your future. Maybe—just maybe—there’s a life for you with David if you’re brave enough to see it.”

She let out a soft chuckle. “All right, that’s enough of my advice for one night. You’ve got a lot to figure out, but you will. Just remember, you don’t have to do it all at once.”

I smiled faintly, feeling lighter than I had all day. "Thanks, Mama Loretta. Thank you for listening."

I stood up, stretching my legs and feeling a weight lift off my chest, even though there was still so much left unsaid. Mama Loretta pulled me into a warm hug, and as she let me go, I headed toward the door.

“Remember,” she called after me, “if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where I am.”

"I will. Thanks again," I said, stepping out into the hallway.

I walked back to my apartment, feeling strangely lighter. Maybe coming to terms with what I’d done was finally easing the guilt. But what about all the people I’d hurt? Did they ever get a chance to heal, or had I robbed them of that by running away? When I reached my front door, I unlocked it and stepped inside. It was eerily quiet—quieter than usual. The dim light from the hallway filtered into the living room, casting soft shadows across the walls. I didn't realize I was gone that long, when I looked at the clock I saw it was close to midnight.

I looked around, taking in the familiar but now somewhat empty space. David was already in bed, fast asleep. He had work the next day.

I went to my room, changed, and lay down on the bed. The silence around me was soothing, but my mind was still racing. The conversation with Mama Loretta kept running through my head, repeating like a song stuck on loop.

What if she was right? What if I was just running again? Would I really be able to confront my past and make things right? Could I even do it, after all these years?

I stared up at the ceiling, the questions lingering, unanswered.

Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted off to sleep, my mind still spinning, but at least for now, at peace.

Mama Loretta and I continued to speak regularly after that evening, and with each conversation, I learned more about her. She shared stories of her life, her struggles, and the pain she carried. One of the hardest things she ever had to face was losing her husband. He had been an alcoholic, and though their years together were filled with bitterness, regret, and loss, she never stopped caring for him.

In his final days, he asked for her forgiveness. He admitted the hurt he had caused her and their son, Marcus. He was remorseful, his voice weak from the illness that claimed him, but his words, though too late, held some weight. It wasn’t enough to undo the damage done over the years, but it was all they had. And slowly, with time, Mama Loretta and Marcus started to forgive him. It wasn’t easy—nothing ever truly is—but they made peace with the past.

Hearing her story, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own journey. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t about erasing the past, but learning to live with it. Accepting that we can’t change what’s been done, but we can choose how we move forward.

Summer turned into fall, then winter. With each passing day, I found myself feeling more at home in this sprawling city of strangers. My first winter in New York wasn’t easy—I had never truly experienced cold like this. Back in L.A., winter meant a jacket for a few weeks, but here, it was a battle against icy winds and freezing temperatures. I quickly realized that the crisp, biting air wasn’t something you could just walk through. But David had prepared me. We went shopping for proper winter gear: thermal shirts, a heavy coat, scarves, gloves. I still remember the way David smiled when I tried on my first pair of thick boots, sliding them on with a grin and shaking his head in disbelief at how "unprepared" I was for the East Coast weather. It was fun, though, figuring it all out with him, laughing at how we both had to adjust to something new.

Winter, with its unpredictable snowstorms and frozen days, came and went in waves, but thankfully the season wasn’t as harsh as it could have been. When the first snow came, I could barely contain my excitement, running outside to feel the cold flakes settle on my face. David, on the other hand, was less thrilled. He just laughed at me, shaking his head, and said, “Wait till the snow starts turning to slush. You’ll be wishing for those sunny L.A. days again.”

By the time the cold truly settled in and fresh snow blanketed the sidewalks, I’d adjusted to New York’s winter life—sort of. Mornings were still brutal, especially on my commute. I’d grown used to the bite of icy air against my cheeks as I trudged to the café. But Roger and Janice both warned me that the winter weather could be unpredictable. Some mornings, the temperature dropped so quickly that even I, in all my warm layers, couldn’t handle it. They suggested I either get a car or start taking Ubers to work, saying it’d be worth it for the colder months.

It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought. The Ubers were a bit pricey, but with no parking at the apartment and no car insurance to worry about, it was much cheaper than buying a car and dealing with the headaches of city parking. So, I took their advice. I started taking Ubers to the café. It felt a bit indulgent, but the convenience made it easier to bear the brunt of the winter chill, especially on those early mornings when the city was still dark and cold.

Despite the inconvenience of the cold, winter brought a different kind of beauty to the city. I loved the way the streets looked when they were dusted with snow, the city lit up with streetlights that glistened off the ice. I’d take walks with David when we could, even when it was cold. He made it bearable, his company enough to push through any discomfort. And by the time spring was on its way, I had learned to love New York winters in a way I never thought possible.

My first Christmas in New York was bittersweet. Although I hadn’t celebrated the holiday in years, sharing it here with David felt surprisingly warm. He was heading back to San Diego to visit his family, but before he left, we set up a small tree in the apartment with a few presents tucked underneath. A couple of days before his flight, we had our own little Christmas morning gift exchange.

It was both exciting and awkward to celebrate with someone I’d only known for six months, yet it also felt right. The first thing David gave me was a pair of outrageous “Bigfoot” slippers—his gentle way of telling me my old ones had outlived their time.

“It’s a practical joke,” he said, smirking, “but you really did need new slippers.”

Laughing, I slipped them on, and retired my old ones, feeling oddly touched by the silly gift. Then David handed me two more presents. One was a small, handcrafted photo collage of moments we’d shared since I’d moved to New York—ticket stubs from that jazz club we visited, a goofy selfie of us in Times Square, and even a crinkled subway card from our first train ride together. The second was a sleek journal with a short note inside the cover: “For the days you don’t want to forget.” I could see he’d put real thought into these gifts, and that made me feel… cared for.

When it was David’s turn, I handed him three gifts of my own. He carefully unwrapped the first—a mint-condition copy of a classic novel he’d once mentioned loving. Since he’s an avid reader, I’d scoured a few bookstores until I found this special edition, and the smile on his face told me it was worth it.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he said softly, running his fingers over the embossed cover.

Next, he unwrapped a framed photo of us, taken on a whim near Central Park. On the back, I’d scribbled a quick message: “Here’s to our next adventure.” For the final gift, I offered him a hand-written letter, one I’d been working up the courage to give him. It wasn’t a declaration of love—I wasn’t ready for that—but it expressed my gratitude for how much he’d helped me settle into my new life.

David opened the letter last, his eyes scanning each sentence as he silently read. When he finished, he looked up with a gentle, understanding smile. No words were needed. We simply basked in the moment, the little Christmas tree lights flickering over us like tiny stars. My first Christmas in New York might have been bittersweet, but in that instant, it felt more sweet than bitter.

The next morning, David left for San Diego to visit his family. I’d be alone in the apartment for the next few weeks. The silence felt eerie—too much like those lonely days after Sarah and I separated, when I wandered from room to room in our old house, searching for any sign she might return. But all I ever found were ghostly reminders of the life I’d destroyed: kids’ toys scattered in the living room, a half-folded pile of laundry on the couch, and the echoes of laughter that once filled every corner.

Sarah never came back for anything; every room stayed exactly as she’d left it. Whenever I stepped into the kids’ bedroom, I could almost see their faces, hear them calling my name. All I had were memories—and the crushing weight of knowing I’d lost them by my own doing.

I blinked, realizing I was still standing in the quiet apartment David and I shared, surrounded by my thoughts. That was then, I reminded myself. This is now.

Despite all the challenges, there were moments that made everything worth it. Walking through snow-covered streets with David, talking over dinner after long shifts, or simply spending the evening together in our small apartment. It wasn’t just about the café or the work. It was David’s presence—his quiet understanding, the way he took care of things without expecting praise.

I found myself thinking more and more about him, but not in the way I expected. David had become a constant, someone I could rely on. His laughter, his steady presence—it was something I had never realized I was missing until he entered my life. And yet, every time I thought about it, a quiet fear tugged at me.

What if he moves on? He would. I was nothing to him, just a friend—a stranger renting a room. He’d find someone else, someone better. Someone who could give him the life and love he deserved.

I carried too much baggage to love, or be loved. Who would want me?

Each time I thought about him, Mama Loretta's words rang in my mind. Michael. Love’s a tricky thing, but it's better to feel something than nothing at all. Just don’t let it slip away… Was I letting my past let this slip away?

What if he finds someone else, someone who could give him the kind of love I couldn’t? I knew he had his own life, his own dreams. He was young, with his whole future ahead of him. He didn’t need someone like me holding him back. He would find someone, I knew he would.

Besides, I hadn’t even told him the truth about myself. Mama Loretta had seen the way David looked at me—there was something there, something unspoken. I had confessed to her that I was gay, and from the way David acted, I was fairly certain he was too. The signs were there, subtle but undeniable. Yet, he’d never said a word. Maybe he didn’t want to complicate things between us. I couldn’t blame him. But the question lingered—should I tell him?

The idea of opening up to him felt both freeing and terrifying. Could we make it work? But would that only make things more complicated than they already were? I didn’t know if I was ready for that. Maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to make something real out of all this, but it wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Nothing ever was.

David deserves someone who could give him all the things I couldn’t—a full, open relationship, without the baggage of my past weighing him down.

But it was undeniable, I caught myself smiling whenever David walked into the room, and I hated how much I wanted to stay in this bubble of ours, even though I knew it couldn’t last forever. For now, it was enough. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t hold onto this feeling for long. Eventually, David would move on, and I’d be left, wondering how much of him I had truly had, and how much of it I had let slip through my fingers.

I’m not sure why I’m even thinking about this. I wasn’t ready for a relationship.

But I couldn’t help wondering why he bothered to give me so much of his time. He didn’t have to. We’d spent hours talking and laughing, and he’d even helped me find my footing here in New York. Still, I was just some stranger who happened to rent a room from him.

Maybe it was in his nature to be kind, always willing to help someone in need. Or maybe he saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. After all, I’d spent so long manipulating people for my own gain that it felt natural to assume everyone else did the same. But each time I caught myself waiting for the hidden motive, I found none. That was unsettling in its own way—realizing that maybe some people are just… good.

I thought back to Ryan and Andre. They’d always been kind, despite how I’d treated them. I was the one who used them, yet they still offered me their love. I didn’t deserve it then, and a part of me still doubts I ever will. But thinking of them now, I can’t ignore the simple truth—they were good, even when I wasn’t.

But part of me couldn't help but feel like I didn’t deserve it. Maybe that was the guilt of what I’d done coming through, a lingering reminder of the lies and pain I’d caused. Maybe I didn’t deserve to be happy, or for someone to treat me well, especially after all I’d done—how I’d let people down, how I’d hurt Sarah, my kids, Ryan, even myself.

Sometimes, I wasn’t sure what to think. Was I taking advantage of David’s kindness? Was I clinging to him because I was afraid of being alone again? Or was this just another fleeting connection that would eventually dissolve, just like everything else? I didn’t want to believe that, but the doubt still lingered in the back of my mind. I wanted to be deserving of what he offered, but there was always that part of me that questioned whether I ever could be.

After nearly two weeks of quiet, David finally returned. He walked through the door with a tired but genuine smile, carrying his luggage and a head full of stories.

“It’s good to be back,” he said, dropping his luggage in the hallway. “You wouldn’t believe how hectic it got.”

He plopped down on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. “If you don’t mind listening to an old man grumble, have a seat,” he said with a grin. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

I joined him, trying to shake off the loneliness that had crept in during his absence.

I wasn’t sure if I should sit beside him or in the armchair, but I ended up choosing the armchair. “So, how was Christmas at home?” I asked.

David’s face lit up. “Well, I’m glad you asked!” he said with a grin. “We’ve only really started celebrating Christmas since my younger brother and sister were born. It’s not a huge holiday for a lot of Korean families, but my parents wanted them to have the experience. We do a small tree, exchange a few gifts, and cook a big dinner. Nothing fancy, but it’s nice getting everyone in the same place.”

He glanced at me, noticing how quiet I was.

“How’ve you been holding up?”

I tried to smile. “Fine,” I said, though it came out too soft. I just sank into the chair, grateful for the warmth of his presence.

After a moment, I cleared my throat. “Roger opened the coffee shop on Christmas Day. He invited some of the folks in the neighborhood who don’t have much. We cooked a meal for them, served plates, chatted—just tried to make the day a little better for everyone.”

David’s eyes lit up with genuine warmth. “That’s awesome,” he said. “Doing the right thing is always worth it, you know? Even if it feels small, it matters.”

I nodded, feeling a tentative sense of relief. Maybe it wasn’t everything, but it was a start. And in that moment, as David talked about his family’s simple traditions, the apartment felt more like a home again.

In the days that followed, we settled into a comfortable routine—I stayed busy at the coffee shop, and David worked on his work projects, or was cooking up something delicious in the kitchen. Yet in the quieter moments, I found my thoughts straying back to the life I’d left behind.

One evening, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, scrolling through old photos—memories of a life I once had. I lingered on images of Sarah and the twins, Shawn and Samantha. They’d be in their early teens now, growing up without me. But at least they had Sarah’s family, and even Ryan, to lean on.

David, ever curious, wandered over.

“What’re you up to?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“Just going through some old photos,” I replied, distracted as I clicked through folder after folder.

David smirked, pushing off the counter to join me. “Oh, let me see. You can tell a lot about a person from their photos.”

I hesitated. “It’s mostly family stuff. Not very interesting.”

I quickly opened a folder of family photos—mom, dad, and me. I didn’t want to revisit old wounds, nor explain who Sarah and the kids were. Looking at those pictures was hard enough. Explaining them would be even harder.

“That’s what they all say. Move over.” David slid into the chair beside me before I could protest. He started scrolling through the thumbnails. “See? These are great. Oh, is this your mom? She looks fierce.”

I nodded, my jaw tightening. “Yeah, that’s her.”

David continued scrolling, laughing at a few awkward family portraits. I couldn't help but laugh at them as well. Then, his laughter faded. “Whoa. What’s this?”

My stomach dropped. David clicked on a photo—a candid shot of me kissing another man. It was Andre. I hadn’t seen that picture in years, how did it end up there? The intimacy of the moment hit me like a punch, and for a brief second, it felt like the room closed in on me.

“Uh…I…” David started, but before he could say more, I snapped the laptop shut and yanked it toward me.

“That… wasn’t supposed to be there,” I muttered, my voice tight. My hands shook slightly as I fiddled with the laptop.

David raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and curiosity in his gaze. “Relax, man. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s nothing,” I cut him off, my tone sharper than I intended. “Just an old photo. Forget you saw it.”

David leaned back, his casual demeanor shifting to one of quiet observation. “Michael, it’s fine. I’m not judging. You don’t have to—I'm also...”

“I said it’s nothing,” I snapped, my voice softening immediately with regret. I took a deep breath and looked down at the laptop. “Sorry. I just… I don't like looking at the past.”

David raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no problem. I get it. We all have stuff we’d rather not dig up.”

I nodded, mumbling a thank-you, but the moment hung heavy between us. David didn’t push, though I could feel his curiosity bubbling beneath the surface.

As David walked back to the living room, he glanced at me. I opened the laptop and started typing away, deliberately avoiding his gaze. I could feel the tension in the air, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up.

Why did I look at those pictures? I hadn’t touched them in years. Why now? Why today? And why the hell did I look at them here, of all places? Now David knows. I didn’t want anyone to know about my past. I just wanted a fresh start. This was supposed to be a new chapter—now I might’ve just ruined it.

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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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