[3] how did we end up here ;; nh

44 » Little Mistake

◊ Niall ◊

Dublin, Ireland, 23 October 2023

Tomorrow is the day. 

I have asked for her parents' blessings, I have talked to my parents. 

There are times when I still question my decision; wondering if this is truly what I want, if I am genuinely ready to commit to protect something so fragile yet so profound. Doubt often lingers, quietly settling over me like a veil of mist. And yet, in the silence of my worst nights, I find myself calling her name. That's how I know she's the one. She has always been there; steady, unwavering, and sadly, not mine.

The moment she closed her eyes and tried to leave the world, I knew with a sudden, aching clarity; I could never bear to lose here. Not at that time. Not now. Not ever. 

There was a time when I was a complete mess, a selfish version of myself I'm not proud of. And sometimes, I'm still afraid that part of me hasn't entirely disappeared. That I might, perhaps, slip, revert, and ruin something good. But lately, things have been... calm. Safe, even. 

I sit on a creaky wooden chair at The Winding Stair Bookshop & Cafe, the kind of place that smells like old pages and bergamot tea. Whenever I'm in Ireland, I make sure to come here; it's always quite. And lucky enough, this is my to-go place since nobody knows I'm coming here. 

I always come here and sit by the large window overlooking the River Liffey, a view that calms me even if only for a while. It's one of the few places where I can breathe without being disturbed by anyone, except from my own place. 

It's her birthday today and I have prepared the most beautiful gift I've ever given to her; the ring. 

Shit, I'm so fucking nervous right now. Can you believe it?

As I take another sip of my tea, I can't quite remember the exact second I stopped being alone. One moment I was sipping tea, watching River Liffey glide past like a forgotten memory, and the next -- she was there. 

She sits across from me without a word, her dark sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose, hair cut into that familiar shoulder-length bob, now shade darker than I could ever remember. As our eyes meet, she reaches up and pushes the glasses onto her head, tucking them behind hear ears.

I'm freezing. 

Carefully, almost ritualistically, I set my cup back down on the saucer, unable to tear my gaze away from her. 

Anne. 

What the fuck is she doing here?

"May I join?" she asks, her voice soft and unbothered, lips painted a striking crimson, curves into a smile that carried no guilt. None at all. 

"What's your intention, Anne?" I ask, barely above a whisper. 

She places a small black handbag on her lap, crossing one leg over the other. Calmly, she raises hand to the waiter, ordering the same tea I have without even glancing at the menu. "I knew you'd be here," she says, as though it is the most natural thing in the world. Or perhaps, for her, it is. 

My body tenses, screaming at me to stand up, walk away, to end whatever this is before it begins again. But I don't. I can't. There is a weight in my chest, something between regret and responsibility, pressing harder with every breathe. 

She has been good to me. Too good. Forgiving me more times than I ever deserved, loving me in ways I don't know how to return. I can't bring myself to be cruel. Not again. Not when all of this was my fault to begin with.