I don’t know how it started. Maybe it was the morning walks. Or the silent coffee moments. Or the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. But something shifted. Somewhere in the quiet, Charles and I slipped into each other’s days like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we weren’t two people running from grief. Like we weren’t afraid to feel again.

Life outside was loud and unkind, but I guess we were both learning how to let some softness back in. We still talked almost every day. Some days, he’d come over with pastries. Other days, I’d find myself texting him random songs that reminded me of nothing and everything.

It was during one of our many conversations — him stretched on my couch, talking with his arms like he always did — that he brought her up.

“I met someone,” he said, carefully, like he was scared the words would break something.

I blinked. “Okay…”

He sighed. “It’s… I don’t know. It feels wrong. Not because she’s not nice, she is. But I still feel like I’m cheating on my wife.”

My chest tightened — not for me, but for him. Because I knew that guilt. I wear it too.

“You’re not cheating, Charles,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “You lost someone. You’re allowed to try again.”

He looked down at his fingers. “You think so?”

I nodded. “I do. It doesn’t mean you love her less. It just means… maybe you’re ready to feel something again. Even if it’s small.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just sat there, chewing on his bottom lip like it held answers. Eventually, he nodded, almost to himself.

He went on a date with her a few days later.

And yes, he texted me through most of it.

“She’s talking about her dog for ten minutes straight. Help.”

“She asked if I believe in soulmates. I panicked and said I believe in bread.”

“Ella. Say something. I’m spiraling.”

I laughed so hard reading his messages, I nearly dropped my phone in the sink. I told him to just be himself. To relax. To stop being so weird. He sent a photo of the two of them at a rooftop bar. He looked… nervous. But his smile was real.

I didn’t know what I felt.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.

Maybe just… replaced? No. That wasn’t right either. It wasn’t about possession. It was more like I missed how safe it felt to be the only one who understood him.

When he came by the next week, he brought wine. I didn’t ask how the date went. I figured if he wanted to tell me, he would.

He did.

“It was fine,” he said, after pouring us both a glass. “She’s nice. Funny. Asked too many questions. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how you told me to chill and not say anything stupid.”

I smiled, trying to keep my tone light. “Did it work?”

“I didn’t mention bread again, so that’s a win.”

I laughed. He didn’t. He just stared at me for a second too long.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Since I told you about her.”

I looked away. “I’ve just been tired. Work stuff.”

He didn’t buy it. “Ella.”

“What?”

“Are you… jealous?”

That word again. Jealous. As if it was that simple. As if he was just a crush and not the only person who had seen me cry without shame. As if he hadn’t helped me find parts of myself I thought died with my son.

“I’m not,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he gave me a small smile. “Are you in love with me, Ella?”

My heart stuttered.

“Why will you ask me such a question?”

I asked.

“What do you mean by that, is there anything wrong with the question?”

He replied.

“Please if you are all about this drama today, kindly leave”. I replied rudely.

He left.

I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve said something — anything. But instead, I let the door close behind him. I leaned against it for a long while, my heart doing backflips, my brain screaming at me for being such a coward.

An hour passed. Maybe two.

Then my phone rang.

I didn’t recognize the number, but something in my chest knew. My hands shook as I answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Ella?”

“Yes…”

“This is Stonefield Hospital. We have a Charles here listed with your number as an emergency contact. He’s stable, but he was in a car accident. We need you to come in.”

I didn’t remember driving there. I don’t even remember grabbing my keys. Everything was a blur until I saw him — bruised, bandaged, but conscious — sitting up in a hospital bed.

“Charles…”

He looked up, and the smile he gave me was tired but real. “Hey. You should see the other guy.”

I rushed to him, not caring about the nurses or the smell of antiseptic or the fear still clawing at my throat.

“You idiot,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

His eyes softened. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” I said, reaching for his hand. “But you did.”

We stayed like that for a moment — just breathing. Just existing. Then, gently, he leaned in and pressed a small peck to my cheek.

It should’ve ended there. But it didn’t.

Before I could stop myself, I turned my face and kissed him.

Not on the cheek.

Not a friendly peck.

A real kiss.

Soft. Desperate. Terrified. Honest.

When I pulled away, he was staring at me like I’d just told him the sky wasn’t blue.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

I sat beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. And for the first time in what felt like months, I let myself feel without apologizing for it.

The truth is, I was jealous.

Not of the girl. Not of the date.

I was jealous of any version of him that didn’t include me.

And maybe that was selfish. Maybe it was broken.

But it was also real.

And for now, that was enough.