Chapter 7: No More Pretending

My heart almost jumped out of my chest. “…Do you know who it was?”

I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

The owner checked her records. “His last name’s Ji—Mr. Jesse. But we haven’t been able to reach him for a long time. There was a supply issue once, and we wanted to ask if we could send something else, but he never replied.”

Her words were a balm, soothing the ache in my chest. Jesse. It had to be him.

“Do you know him?”

She looked up at me, suddenly worried. “…Miss, are you okay?”

I wiped my sore eyes and waved her off. “I’m fine. Really.”

I forced a smile, trying to hold myself together. She saw right through me, her kindness making it harder to keep the tears at bay.

She was kind. She handed me a pack of tissues and made me a cup of herbal tea, then went to tend the flowers.

I sat in the corner, sipping the tea, letting the warmth seep into my bones. For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope.

I calmed down in the shop for a long time, finally picked a bunch of daisies, and was about to leave. As I was paying, the owner stopped me.

She reached across the counter, her eyes soft. “Wait a second, honey.”

“You don’t need to pay for this bouquet.”

I was confused. She looked nostalgic. “Miss, I remember now. Mr. Jesse also said that if someone ever came to ask about the order, and she came alone, I should give her a bouquet and tell her: Keep going—the stars will show you the way.”

Her words hit me like a wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. I clutched the daisies to my chest, tears streaming down my face.

That day, I cried my heart out in front of my mom’s grave. I never expected him to appear by my side in this way. Even more, I never expected that even now, I still needed his comfort. What kind of preparation must he have made to leave those words with the shop owner? Only I understood—‘if she comes alone’ meant: he was no longer by my side.

I knelt in the grass, the bouquet cradled in my lap. The sky overhead was wide and blue, the world full of possibilities. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen—really seen.

That evening, a colleague called. “Addie, your plane ticket is booked for next week. Who do you want to list as the beneficiary for your life insurance? Your husband?”

Her voice was brisk, businesslike. I hesitated, then shook my head.

I shook my head. “Please list Doctors Without Borders.”

“Doctors Without Borders?”

“Yes.” I sniffed. Because… he works for Doctors Without Borders.

I stared out the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The world was waiting, and I was finally ready to meet it on my own terms.

Staggering out of the cemetery gate, I saw an unexpected figure. It was Mason—unshaven, haggard. When he saw me, he didn’t say a word, just handed me a box. Inside was a camera, the same model as my mom’s.

He looked older, smaller somehow. The box shook in his hands as he held it out to me. I took it, but didn’t open it right away.

“The old one couldn’t be fixed.”

His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. I met his eyes, searching for something—regret, maybe, or understanding. But all I saw was exhaustion.

We looked at each other in silence. I didn’t know how he found me, or where he found a camera from 1994. But what I cherished was already gone. Even if I got an identical one, what was the point?

The box felt heavy in my lap, a poor substitute for what I’d lost. I set it aside, my heart already moving on.

Seeing that I didn’t take it, he pressed his forehead, exhausted. “Come back with me! The wedding’s next week, invitations have already gone out. If you keep making trouble, it won’t end well.”

His words sounded hollow, like he was reading from a script. I almost felt sorry for him, trapped in a life he never really chose.

I found it ironic. “In your eyes, am I the one making trouble?”

My voice was steady, calm. I finally understood: I was never the problem. I was just done pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I turned away, the daisies still clutched in my hand, and walked into the fading light, ready to write my own story.