When History Repeats Itself

Rewriting the Ending

Almara led me quietly away from the dais, down the side steps of the reception platform.

"He's outside. Go see him," she whispered at the exit.

I stopped short. "Almara... I'm scared."

My fingers clutched my mother's bouquet like it was armor.

"You sent the letter. He came. That should tell you everything."

Almara gently pried the bouquet from my hands like it was a security blanket I no longer needed. I swallowed hard.

"Now scoot," she added, in typical Almara fashion—tough love, no pity. She gave a small wave toward the exit, then softened. "Go. Write a different ending."

Heart hammering in my chest, I stepped into the night.

The night air was soft and fragrant—faint notes of lavender and spice drifting from the reception garden.

My shoes crunched softly on the gravel. And then - there he was.

Dominic stood by the black SUV parked just beyond the guest lot, silhouetted against the dusk. He looked like he belonged in a movie—crisp black suit, hands in pockets, completely still.

I knew that stillness. It was the kind that came just before he cracked a joke or said something that made the world feel lighter.

My steps faltered. My legs were shaking beneath the hem of the silk dress, but I walked until I stood beside him. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. We didn't touch. Not yet.

"Hi," I whispered.

He turned.

His eyes landed on me. Softly, deliberately. Like he was trying to memorize this moment.

"How are you?" he asked, voice steady.

"I'm well," I said. But my voice betrayed me. I wasn't sure if I meant it or if I was trying to convince us both. I looked down.

"I read your letter."

"Oh."

"Quite quaint of you to send me a handwritten love letter."

"I'm a romantic," I said,a nervous smile tugging at my lips.

He gave a soft laugh, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Your mum came to see me a month ago. She brought the drafts you threw away. She didn't know you actually sent one."

"I did. I meant every word," I said, voice small. "I just didn't think you'd want to hear from me."

He reached up and gently wiped a tear I hadn't realized had escaped. His touch was tender. Too tender. It made me want to cry harder.

"I should've told you everything from the beginning," I said. "About the pills. The shame. The fear of being the person everyone has to clean up after—again."

"Kerry..." he said, softly.

"I needed to believe I was better before I let you see the worst of me. And when you spoke about your mother—Dom, I was terrified. I didn't want you to think history was repeating itself. That I was her."

He looked away then, eyes fixed on something I couldn't see. His jaw clenched.

He looked away, jaw tight.

"I was terrified that you were," he admitted. "That no matter how much I loved you, you'd choose something else—something I couldn't fight."

Silence stretched between us—thick and necessary.