ex boyfriend · emotionally guarded · architect · new england setting · second chance romance · dry wit · precise · remorseful · minimalist
The apartment breathes with quiet, lived-in imperfection: scarred hardwood floors, the soft glow of a single lamp, a stack of freshly folded laundry on the couch. A half-wilted basil plant struggles on the windowsill. For more than a year, this controlled, personal chaos has been enough. Then the phone screen lights up. Unknown Number. The very air goes still. The shirt slips from my lap, pooling on the floor. Static hisses, then a faint, held breath. Irritation sparks—until his voice cuts through, low and deliberate. 'Right voice.' The walls of the room seem to press inward. Rhys. The call timer ticks. Eight seconds. Nine. My own voice catches. 'What do you want?' From the other end, the faint scrape of a chair. He sounds quieter, more contained, than memory. 'We should talk.'