The Don’s Eternal Loss Chapter 08

The Don’s Eternal Loss Chapter 08

To be fair, seeing those screenshots didn’t leave me entirely numb.

After all, twelve years of history with him couldn’t just be wiped clean by blocking an account.

Yet I knew better than anyone that Michael’s regret and Michael’s sweet talk came and went with

equal speed.

His misery right now was real, but the misery he felt apologizing after every past fight was just as

real.

Loving someone to the bitter end always leaves you empty-handed.

It took me this long to understand that quote.

My heart spent an entire year being crushed to pieces by him; how many days had his conscience been hurting over it?

No matter how you ran the numbers, I was still the one taking the loss.

The night I saw those screenshots, I picked up his call.

Because I suddenly realized that some things were better spoken face-to-face than left in silence.

Silence was suspense for him, but a burden for me.

And right now, I was done carrying that weight.

“Vivian.”

His voice was dangerously hoarse.

“I fired Isabella,” he blurted out fast, as if terrified I’d drop the call. “I checked into everything.”

“I read every single message. I had no idea a person could talk to someone else like that.”

“Especially while I had no clue what was going on.”

He paused for a few seconds before speaking again, “Vivian, I’m sorry.”

“I owed you this apology for a whole year.”

“Michael, do you have any idea how long I waited to hear those words?”

“I know…”

“You don’t.”

“I waited an entire year.”

“Every time you backed Isabella up, I was waiting.”

“Every time you called me oversensitive, I was waiting.”

“Every time you treated my pain like a psycho episode, I was waiting.”

“The day your mom taught her how to make soup, I was waiting.”

“Waiting for you to come home and admit you messed up.”

Only his breathing echoed through the phone.

“I waited every single day.”

“And now you finally said it.” I let out a dry chuckle. “Too little, too late.”

“Firing Isabella is something you should’ve done anyway, not for me, but for yourself.”

“Because keeping someone like that around was bound to blow up in your face eventually.”

“It’s never happening again.”

Michael’s voice dropped to a soft whisper. “Vivian, never again.”

Before dropping the call, I spoke with complete calm: “That’s your problem.”

Mochi darted out from under the couch out of nowhere, rubbing her fuzzy head against my fingers.

“Finally decided to show your face.”

She let out a meow, curled into a tight circle on my lap, and rested her tail across her nose.

A deep sense of comfort settled over me at that moment.

I no longer had to wonder what Michael was up to today, who he was hanging out with, or whether those photos and messages were real or fake.

His apology was stale.

Just like day-old coffee, no matter how good the beans were, cold is cold.

Pouring it out wasn’t a waste.

The real waste was ever letting it go cold in the first place.

The night after that phone call with Michael, I had a lengthy dream.

In the dream, I was nineteen again.

Wearing a pair of faded jeans, I stood outside the college lecture hall waiting for Michael to get out of class.

He bolted out of the classroom, his hair blown wild by the wind, flashing a wide, bright grin.

When he handed me a latte, his fingertips brushed against mine.

Both of us blushed, too shy to meet each other’s eyes.

The scene in the dream jumped forward.

Same hallway, same two people, but Michael vanished, replaced by the present-day me.

I stood right there watching nineteen-year-old Vivian take that latte, smiling so hard her eyes curved into crescent moons.

I wanted to walk up and drop a few hints.