After I Left, He Begged on His Knees to Bring Me Home Chapter 10

After I Left, He Begged on His Knees to Bring Me Home Chapter 10

Three years later, I settled in a coastal city, and my studio moved there as well.

It stayed small, but the work was steady.

I lived alone and kept an orange cat. It was so fat its belly almost scraped the floor when it walked.

On weekends, I went for walks by the sea.

The beach was always full-families with kids, couples holding hands.

I took off my shoes and stepped barefoot into the sand.

Waves rolled in, cold against my feet, then pulled back, dragging the sand away with them.

I didn’t date anyone again.

Not because I couldn’t let go of someone-just because I liked being alone.

I knew where everything in my home was. I washed my own dishes, put them away myself, slept in

whenever I wanted on weekends.

Sometimes friends asked if they should introduce someone to me.

I always said no.

They’d say, “You haven’t moved on, have you?”

And I’d answer, “No. I just don’t want to give my time to anyone else anymore.”

One day, an old coworker came to have dinner with me.

We sat by the window. The ocean was right outside.

Halfway through the meal, she lowered her voice.

“Do you still remember Griffin Mercer?”

I picked up a piece of fish and ate it.

“What about him?”

“He ended up with Vivian Hayes, or so I heard. But they fight all the time. She’s attempted suicide a few times. His company’s also been struggling. Things don’t sound great.”

I took a sip of water. “Oh.”

She stared at me, her fork frozen mid-air. “That’s it? That’s your reaction?”

“What reaction were you expecting?”

She shook her head. “You really have moved on.

“I already did a long time ago.”

That night, when I got home, my cat was asleep on the windowsill, belly up, paws curled,

I opened my phone and saw the time-exactly 11:00.

For a moment, I remembered the habit.

Every night at eleven. Three-minute calls.

Who was he calling now?

I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to.

I put the phone down and warmed a glass of milk.

The microwave ran for three minutes, then beeped.

I stood by the window with the warm cup in my hands. Outside, the sea was black, broken only by

distant ship lights.

Wind slipped through the crack in the window, scattering the steam from the milk.

I drank it, washed the cup, and turned off the lights.

In bed, the cat jumped down, walked across the blanket, and curled up beside my pillow, purring

softly.

I rested my hand on its back. It nudged closer and pressed its chin into my palm.

After that, I never heard anything about him again.

Whether he was doing well or not had nothing to do with me.

Whether he regretted it or not didn’t interest me either.

All I knew was this: On the night I left him, I walked away crying. Tears fell onto the back of my

hand, one after another.

After that night, I never cried for anyone again.

Not because my heart turned hard, but because I learned tears should only be saved for someone

worth them.

And if no one was worth it, then they were for yourself.

The sun would rise again-and so would I, on my own.