The best man

Chapter 4

The next morning, the rain still hasn't stopped, but it's lighter now—just a soft drizzle. I wake up feeling lighter too. Last night's conversation with Conor is still on my mind, but the weight of it doesn't hang as heavy as it once might have. I said what needed to be said, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel guilty about it.

I've decided to do something just for me. I pack a small bag with a blanket, a thermos of tea, and the book I've been meaning to start for weeks. I don't have a particular destination in mind, but I know I want to be outside, somewhere quiet, where I can breathe in the fresh air and just be.

By late morning, I arrive at a local park, the kind with sprawling green spaces and winding paths. The rain has painted everything with a fresh sheen, the trees and grass gleaming with moisture. The air smells like wet earth and the kind of crispness that only autumn rain can bring. I find a sheltered bench beneath a large gazebo, its wide canopy offering protection from the drizzle. It's the perfect spot—close to a small pond that stretches out ahead, dotted with ducks and fish making lazy circles beneath the surface.

I settle onto the bench, laying the blanket across my lap for extra warmth, and pour myself some tea from my thermos. The warmth of the cup feels comforting in my hands as I take a slow sip, the steam rising and curling into the cool air. In the background, the rain taps softly against the roof of the gazebo, creating a rhythm that feels like nature's own lullaby.

I open my book and read for a while, completely absorbed in the story. Every now and then, I glance up, watching the ducks glide across the surface of the pond, their reflections rippling in the water as they swim. Fish dart beneath them, their movements quick and graceful, barely disturbing the stillness of the pond.

I set the book down after a while, content to just sit there, watching the world unfold around me. There's something so soothing about it all—the ducks, the quiet movements of the fish, the gentle fall of rain against the water's surface. For the first time in a long time, I'm not distracted by thoughts of Conor or the complicated emotions I've been juggling. Instead, I find myself lost in this peaceful moment, where nothing needs to be solved or figured out.

I don't take out my phone to snap a picture. It feels unnecessary. Instead, I simply watch the ducks for a while longer, appreciating how simple life is for them, how they move through the water without care. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. It's nice to just admire things as they are—no need to capture it, no need to share it with anyone but myself.

The rain continues to fall softly, a constant background presence, and I feel a kind of calm I haven't felt in months. I finish my tea, enjoying the warmth spreading through me, and let my mind drift, not to the past or the future, but just to this moment—this beautiful, quiet moment.

Eventually, I pack up my things and leave the shelter of the gazebo, taking the long way home. The rain, though still falling, doesn't bother me. It's soothing, almost, like a reminder to slow down, to take things one step at a time.

When I finally arrive home, I feel content. Not happy, not bursting with joy, but content in a quiet, steady way. Like I'm finally learning how to be alone without feeling lonely. I make myself some lunch and sit by the window, watching the rain as it gently falls.

And for the first time in a long time, I realize I don't need anyone else to make me feel whole. I'm enough. This peace I