The apartment was too quiet—too still for a Friday night.
Ethan sat slouched on his couch, surrounded by the kind of dim lighting that wasn't intentional, just the result of forgetting to replace a bulb for the third week in a row. The TV played some old sitcom rerun, the laugh track echoing in an otherwise lifeless room. But Ethan wasn't watching. He hadn't really watched anything in weeks.
His eyes wandered to the stack of mail on the coffee table. Bills, promotional flyers, one unopened letter from Emma's last known address. He had kept it unopened for months now, as if the seal itself held back a wave he wasn't ready to drown in.
He leaned forward, rubbing his temples, his fingers brushing against the untouched novel on the table. In the Name of Love. Its matte cover gleamed faintly under the streetlight filtering through the window. It had arrived two days ago, hand-delivered by Allan with a hopeful smile and a simple plea:
"Just read it. You've got nothing to lose."
At the time, Ethan had scoffed. "Another love story?" he'd muttered. "That's the last thing I need."
But something about the title wouldn't let go of him. Maybe it was how desperately he wanted to believe it still meant something.
He stood, walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat back down. His thumb brushed the edge of the book again. He stared at it for a long while, as if waiting for the cover to open itself and give him a sign. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he picked it up.
The couch creaked beneath him as he leaned back and opened to the first page.
---
He didn't expect to get pulled in.
The first chapter was set in a small Moroccan town, painting the tale of Zahra and Liam—a story of two artists finding love across cultures. It was gentle, vibrant, and full of unspoken longings. By the time the chapter ended, Ethan felt something he hadn't in a long time—curiosity. That pull you feel in your chest when something stirs you deeper than you expect.
He turned the page.
Next came Eleanor and Henry, in Victorian England. A forbidden love—melancholic and wistful. Then Seraphina and Lucian in a mystical forest, their love glowing in the space between light and shadow. Victoria and the Stranger in the mansion. Sarah and Jake on a windswept coast. Each chapter a new world, each world a new kind of ache. And each ache—familiar.
He found himself awake at three in the morning, the book resting on his chest as he stared at the ceiling. It was like these stories were holding up a mirror—not to who he was now, but to who he used to be. The man who once believed love was everything.
---
Two days passed before Ethan reached the final chapter. He hadn't touched his phone. Not even to scroll.
He'd seen Emma's name flash on his screen countless times since the breakup, but he never answered. It was always too late or too painful or too pointless.
Tonight, he stood at the window, the city humming below. The final chapter stared at him from the open book on the table: One Last Chance.
He took a breath and sat down.
Sarah and Jake's story wasn't dramatic. It was simple, raw. Real. Just two people who had loved once and lost it, then collided again when life least expected it. Jake reminded Ethan of himself—guarded, bruised, but still carrying a sliver of hope under all that cynicism.
And Sarah? She was everything Emma used to be. Brave. Soft. Complicated.
As he reached the final page, Ethan felt a strange pressure in his chest. Not sadness. Not quite regret. Just… a longing.
He closed the book slowly.
---
Ethan stayed still for a while. Then he stood and walked to the bookshelf. Dust clung to old memories—framed photos, a stack of CDs, Emma's favorite poetry collection that he could never bring himself to return.
He picked it up and opened it. A small note fell out. Her handwriting, neat and familiar: "To love is to risk everything—and sometimes, it's worth it."
His hand trembled slightly. He laughed under his breath, not bitterly this time, but softly—like someone who hadn't laughed in a while and had forgotten how.
He looked out the window again, not seeking answers, just… being. The pain hadn't disappeared, but something had changed. It no longer defined him. Maybe love wasn't a lie. Maybe it had just been... misread.
He turned his phone on and found Allan's name.
"You were right," he texted. "Thank you."
A second later, a reply:
"Told you. Welcome back, Romeo."
---
The next morning, Ethan brewed coffee and opened the window wide, letting in the salty breeze from the coast. For the first time in months, the light didn't feel harsh.
He pulled out a notebook and began to write—not a letter to Emma, not even a journal entry. Just thoughts. Random words about love, loss, and beginnings. He didn't know what it would become, but for once, he didn't need a destination.
Love didn't have to be perfect. It didn't need to be loud or cinematic. It just had to be real. And maybe, when he was ready, he'd try again.
Not for anyone else.
For himself.
---
"Sometimes..Healing begins with a single page turned—
In the name of love..."