Me: About what?
Adrien: Us.
My hands trembled.
Me: I already told you everything I needed to say.
Adrien: I know. But I want to talk in person if you’re willing.
I stared at the words, feeling torn. Part of me wanted closure. Part of me wanted to hear him say something—anything—that made sense of the last four years. Part of me dreaded reopening wounds that hadn’t even scabbed over yet.
But I agreed.
We met at a quiet park near Laya’s place. I spotted him sitting on a bench, his shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, looking smaller than I remembered. When he looked up and saw me, something flickered across his face—relief, fear, guilt, all mixed together.
“Meera,” he said softly.
“Hi.”
We sat in silence for a while. Birds chirped. Cars passed in the distance. It should have felt peaceful, but my chest was tight.
Finally, he spoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.”
My throat tightened. Hearing it from him—not through a third party, not indirectly—felt surreal.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he continued. “I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”
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