Chapter 50 – “One Week Apart”
The rules were simple.
No calls. No texts. No social media stalking. One week. Alone.
Eliza had drawn the line after their conversation on the couch, her voice steady but her fingers curled too tightly around her wine glass.
"If we're going to make a decision this big," she'd said, "we need to know we're not just reacting. We need clarity. Perspective."
What she didn't say out loud: I need to know we won't break the second we're apart.
Day One.
Eliza woke to silence.
No morning text. No kiss on the shoulder. Just the shape of Will still imprinted on his side of the bed and the lingering scent of his cedar shampoo on the pillow.
She got up early. Poured herself into meetings. Answered emails like a machine. Said "fine" when Charlotte asked how she was.
At lunch, she found herself scrolling through photos of them at last month's summit — his hand on her waist, her smile unguarded. She tossed her phone face down after that.
Will drove upstate.
Back to the small town he never thought he'd revisit. The streets were quieter than he remembered. Familiar and foreign, like a faded memory in warm light.
He spent time with his mom. Walked the riverbank where he used to skip stones as a kid. Sat on the roof of the house he grew up in and stared at the stars, thinking about London. Thinking about her.
One night, he wrote a message he never sent.
I miss you. Even when I'm pretending not to.
He deleted it before sunrise.
Day Four.
Eliza found his favorite mug in the dishwasher. The one she used to tease him for — chipped, faded, ugly as sin.
She didn't wash it.
Just held it to her chest and closed her eyes.
Day Six.
Will stood in the old town bookstore, hands in his coat pockets, when he saw a hardcover she once mentioned wanting — something obscure and out of print.
He bought it.
Didn't say why.
Day Seven.
She checked the time five times before noon.
He packed early. Left the house before breakfast.
They were both back in the city by nightfall.
Still quiet. Still uncertain.
But changed.
At exactly 9:03 p.m., her doorbell rang.
She opened it before he could knock.
No words. Just breath and presence and something held in the space between them.
"I didn't like it," he said, voice hoarse. "The silence."
She nodded. "Neither did I."
He stepped in.
She reached for his hand.
He gave it.
They didn't make love that night.
They made space — on the couch, lights dim, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist.
Not every reunion has fireworks.
Sometimes, love comes back quiet.
And stays louder than ever.