“Another peaceful morning,” I whispered, gazing at the ocean. Years had passed since my divorce, and I’d grown used to the solitude. “I don’t need anyone,” I often reminded myself, focusing on my writing. My novels thrived in the quiet, but occasionally, I’d wonder if something was missing.
Then Oliver appeared. One morning, while sipping coffee, I noticed him—a tall man with a golden retriever, walking along the beach. “Morning,” he greeted me, and we exchanged shy pleasantries. Each day, I looked for him, my feelings growing stronger despite my hesitation.
One day, his dog ran into my garden, and we struck up a conversation. “Do you like reading?” I asked. He laughed, revealing he was a writer too. We connected over our shared profession, and soon, I invited him to dinner. He agreed, and everything seemed perfect.
But then, during our dinner, a woman appeared—his ex-wife, Rebecca—demanding his attention and ignoring me entirely. He left with her, and I was left confused and hurt.
Two days later, Oliver showed up at my door with flowers, apologizing. “I panicked,” he admitted. He invited me to a quieter literary event, and I agreed.
At the event, Rebecca appeared again, causing a scene, throwing wine in my face. Oliver confessed that he had an affair during their separation and that Rebecca had manipulated him. “I can’t do this,” I whispered, walking away.
Days later, I saw Oliver standing up to Rebecca, finally taking control of his life. I realized then that he had changed—and maybe, so could I.
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