When History Repeats Itself

When Love Comes Home

I went into my mum's room and rifled through her drawers until I found it. She'd moved the location, but she still kept a writing pad tucked beneath a stack of documents. The paper was soft, trimmed in delicate pastel hues like the edge of a dream.

I sat at her desk, the same one she used to draft invoices and grocery lists, and began writing.

My first few attempts were scratchy and uncertain—scribbled on the backs of old receipts and notebook pages, each one more frustrated than the last.

But after a few days and several failed drafts, the words finally settled. I reached for the special paper and wrote with careful, deliberate strokes.

⸻

Dear Dominic,

Before you tear this letter apart or throw it away, I'm asking you—just for a moment—to hear me out. I need to say I'm sorry. Truly, deeply sorry for hurting you.

You are the love of my life. And no matter how this ends, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try—if I didn't at least try—to show you how much you meant to me, how much you still mean.

I gave in to a weakness. I know that's not good enough. But please believe me when I say—our love was stronger. Strong enough to bring me back.

After I took the pill, the only thing I could think about was you. And that terrified me. Because I didn't want to lose you. Not again. So I forced myself to throw it up. I chose us. I chose to fight for myself. For you. For my family.

I'm not proud of that night, but I need you to know that I didn't let it win.

I found out about your mother the night I stayed over. I saw the way your eyes dimmed, how the pain sat heavy in your silence. And it scared me. Scared me that one day, if I told you my truth, you'd look at me the same way. Like I had become another betrayal you'd have to unlearn.

I failed you, Dominic. I see that now. And I'll carry that with me, even if you never find it in your heart to forgive me. But I hope... someday, maybe, you will.

I've enclosed the ring. It was our promise—of something honest, something whole. I broke that promise. So now, all I can do is return it and pray it doesn't make you hate me more.

I will always love you. Even if the only place you keep me now is as a memory—I'll still be there, loving you quietly. Even if you never write back.

Always,
Kerry

⸻

I folded the letter carefully, smoothing the edges flat before placing it in the envelope.

My fingers trembled as I slid off the ring—it had become a part of me, an anchor, a hope—and laid it gently beside the folded paper. I stared at both for a moment, the way you stare at something you're afraid you'll never see again.

A single tear slipped down my cheek as I sealed the envelope and wrote his name—Dominic—across the front.

It was the hardest kind of goodbye: the kind that leaves your heart intact, but hollow.

I asked my dad to deliver the letter through Mrs. Chase. She had always rooted for Dom and me, and even after everything, she remained kind to me. If anyone could convince him to read it—to really read it and not just toss it aside—it was her.

My dad said yes. Of course he did. He knew what it meant to love and break, and love again.

And maybe, just maybe, Dom would look at me the way Aunt Jamila now looks at my father. Because sometimes—just sometimes—love does come back home.