Carter's POV
The rehab gates creaked open, revealing a world that felt both familiar and foreign. There she was, Aishwariya, standing with a bouquet of wildflowers, her eyes shimmering with anticipation.
"Hey," I whispered, my voice catching.
"Hey," she replied, stepping closer. "These are for you. I remembered how you said wildflowers reminded you of freedom."
My fingers trembled as I took the bouquet, breathing in its earthy scent. "You remembered that? I mentioned it once, months ago."
"I remember everything you say, Carter." Her voice was soft but steady. "The important things, at least."
We began to walk through a nearby park, the silence between us filled with unspoken words. Our fingers brushed, then intertwined, grounding me.
"I'm scared," I admitted, watching a couple push a stroller along the path ahead of us. "Everything feels so... intense. Like the volume's been turned up on the whole world."
"Me too," she said, squeezing my hand. "But we don't have to figure it all out today. One step at a time, remember?"
I stopped walking, turning to face her. "Why did you wait for me? Six months is a long time. You could have—"
"Because I love you," she interrupted, her eyes never leaving mine. "And because I believe in you. Always have."
"Even when I didn't believe in myself?"
"Especially then." She reached up, her palm warm against my cheek. "That's how this works."
Without another word, our lips met in a gentle, aching kiss—a beginning, not a conclusion.
"I don't think I can ever repay you for this," I whispered against her lips.
She shook her head slightly. "This isn't a transaction, Carter. This is just us, finding our way back to each other."
As we continued walking, a weight I hadn't realized I'd been carrying seemed to lift slightly from my shoulders.
AISHWARIYA's POV
A few days later, we met up with Liv and Seb at a quaint café. I could feel Carter's tension as we approached the entrance.
"What if they look at me differently now?" he murmured, hesitating at the door.
I squeezed his hand. "They're your best friends, Carter. They've been calling me weekly to check on you."
"They have?"
"Of course. They love you."
Olivia's eyes widened when she saw Carter, and she rushed to hug him, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.
"You look... alive," she said, tears brimming as she pulled back to examine his face. "God, Carter, it's so good to see you."
"Easy, Liv," Carter laughed, but I could see the emotion in his eyes. "I'm still fragile goods."
Seb clapped him on the back. "Good to have you back, man. without you."
we settled into our seats, and I watched as the tension in Carter's shoulders gradually eased.
"So," Olivia began, stirring her latte, "are you allowed to drink coffee yet, or is caffeine on the no-fly list?"
"I can have coffee," Carter replied. "Just nothing stronger. Doctor's orders for at least the first year."
"Year?" Seb's eyebrows shot up. "That's intense."
"It's what I need," Carter said firmly. "I can't risk going back to where I was. Not after everything." His eyes briefly met mine.
"Well, we're behind you one hundred percent," Olivia declared. "And we've got tons of boring, sober activities lined up to keep you entertained."
"Such as?" Carter asked skeptically.
"Rock climbing," Seb offered.
"Bird watching," from Olivia.
"Extreme crochet."
"Underwater basket weaving."
Carter burst out laughing. "You guys are ridiculous. I've missed you so much."
We spent hours catching up, laughter and stories flowing freely. It felt like a piece of our old lives had been restored.
"Hey," Olivia said, her voice softening as the conversation lulled. "I need to say something." She reached across the table for Carter's hand. "I'm sorry I didn't see how bad things had gotten. I should have—"
"No," Carter interrupted firmly. "We're not doing that. None of this was your fault."
"But—"
"Liv," he said gently, "I got really good at hiding it. From everyone. That was part of the problem."
"Not anymore, though, right?" Seb asked.
Carter nodded slowly. "Not anymore. Full disclosure from here on out. Even when it's ugly. That's the promise I made—to myself and to Aish."
"And we're here for all of it," Olivia assured him, wiping away a tear.
"Even the ugly parts?" Carter asked quietly.
"Especially the ugly parts," Seb replied. "Those are usually the most interesting anyway."
As we left the café, Olivia pulled me aside while the guys walked ahead.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For not giving up on him."
I watched Carter laughing at something Seb had said. "He's worth every second."
CARTER's POV
The following weekend, I found myself nervously standing outside Aishwariya's home, tugging at the collar of my button-down shirt.
"Stop fidgeting," Aishwariya said, smoothing down my collar. "They're going to love you."
"I'm a recovering addict," I muttered. "Not exactly every parent's dream for their daughter."
"You're recovering and you still got your job, you are senior editor," she corrected firmly.
Before I could respond, the front door opened, revealing a slender woman with Aishwariya's smile.
"You must be Carter," she said warmly. "I'm Ranjana. Please, come in."
Aishwariya's father, Raj, greeted me with a firm handshake and searching eyes that seemed to look straight through me.
"So," he said as we sat down to dinner, "Aishwariya tells us you work in publishing."
I swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. I was editorial director at Horizon Publishing before... everything. I'm working my way back now, starting as a senior editor."
"And this is a good company?" he asked, taking a bite of his food.
"Dad," Aishwariya warned.
"It's a fair question," I said. "The answer is yes. Horizon is one of the top independent publishers in the country. Before everything happened, I was overseeing our non-fiction division, working with some incredible authors."
"And what aspects of publishing do you enjoy most?" Ranjana asked, her tone genuinely curious.
I thought for a moment. "Helping writers find their voice. There's something magical about taking a manuscript that has potential and working with the author to shape it into something powerful. When a book connects with readers in a meaningful way—that's when I know I've done my job well."
"Like people connecting with people, "Raj said quietly, his eyes softening slightly.
"Exactly like that," I agreed.
Over dessert, Raj asked about my plans, and I spoke of rebuilding my life, of the books I was currently editing, and my hope to eventually return to my director position.
"I've been in contact with my former team," I explained. "The CEO has been surprisingly supportive. Said the door is open when I'm ready to take on more responsibility again. It's not the same as before, but it's a start."
"Starts are important," Ranajana said. "It's all about the trajectory."
Later, as Aishwariya helped her mother clear the table, Raj led me to a small study lined with books.
"My daughter," he began, pouring tea for both of us, "has a generous heart. Sometimes too generous."
I nodded, bracing myself. "I know."
"She believes in you completely. I want to believe as well, but I need to know something first." He looked me directly in the eyes. "Are you committed to your recovery? Truly committed?"
"More than anything I've ever done in my life," I answered without hesitation. "I lost myself for a while, but I never want to be that person again. Never want to hurt her like that again."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly. "One day at a time, yes? That's what they say."
"One day at a time," I agreed. "Sometimes one hour at a time."
"We're glad you're part of our daughter's life," her mother said later, as we prepared to leave, placing a hand over mine. "And we look forward to watching your journey."
I felt a warmth I hadn't known in years.
In the car, Aishwariya turned to me. "See? That wasn't so bad."
"Your father basically interrogated me," I pointed out.
"That means he likes you," she laughed. "If he didn't care, he wouldn't have bothered asking any questions."
"Your mom is amazing, though."
"She is," Aishwariya agreed, starting the car. "But don't let her fool you. She's the strict one."
"Could have fooled me."
"Just wait until she starts asking about grandchildren."
I nearly choked. "Is that... something you want? Eventually, I mean."
She glanced at me, her expression softening. "Eventually. But we have time, Carter. So much time ahead of us."
As we drove through the night, I found myself believing her.
Aishweriya's POV
Carter suggested a trip to Paradise Island to meet his father. As our ferry approached the shore, I gasped at the sight of the turquoise waters and white sands stretching before us.
"It's even more beautiful than you described," I breathed, leaning against the railing.
Carter stood behind me, arms encircling my waist. "I was afraid to come back. Afraid it wouldn't be the same."
"And is it?"
"Better," he murmured into my hair. "Because you're here."
His father, Thomas, was waiting at the dock—a tall man with Carter's eyes and sun-weathered skin. He embraced his son tightly, then turned to me with a warm smile.
"At last," he said, taking my hands in his. "The woman who saved my son."
"Dad," Carter protested.
"I didn't save him," I agreed, squeezing Thomas's hands. "Carter saved himself. I just reminded him why it was worth doing."
Thomas's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I like her already," he told Carter, then turned back to me. "Welcome to Paradise, Aishwariya."
Over the next few days, Thomas showed us around the island, pointing out his favorite spots and introducing me to locals who had known Carter since childhood.
"This is where he used to sit and read for hours," Thomas said, showing me a quiet cove with a perfect reading nook formed by smooth rocks. "Always had his nose in a book, this one. No surprise he ended up in publishing."
I peered at the weathered bench tucked beneath a tree. "How old were you?" I asked Carter.
"Twelve," he replied. "Dad would bring me here when he needed to get work done at the local paper. Said I could read as long as I stayed where he could see me from the window."
"He'd go through three books in a day sometimes," Thomas explained proudly. "The local librarian used to joke that we needed our own delivery service."
"And was she right about you ending up in publishing?" I teased.
"I guess so," Carter said with a small smile. "Though I took a detour through journalism and marketing first."
"Which she has displayed right inside," Thomas added. "Come on, she'll want to meet you."
Everywhere we went, people greeted Carter with genuine affection, many of them mentioning how good it was to see him "doing well again." I realized that here, unlike in the city, there was no hiding—everyone knew everyone's story.
"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked him as we walked along the beach one evening. "That everyone knows about your struggles?"
He considered this, watching the waves lap at our feet. "It used to. But now... there's something freeing about it. No pretending. No facades."
One night, Thomas invited us for dinner at his small beachfront house. As Carter helped him prepare the fish they'd caught earlier, I wandered through the living room, studying the photos that lined the walls—Carter at various ages, always by the water, often holding up books or fishing trophies with equal pride.
"He was always happiest here," Thomas said, joining me with a glass of fruit juice. "After his mother left, this place became our sanctuary."
"He never talks about her," I said quietly.
Thomas sighed. "Some wounds heal slower than others. She was... troubled. Not unlike Carter was for a while."
"Is that why he's never brought me here before? Too many memories?"
"Perhaps. Or maybe he was waiting until he felt worthy of his own happiness again." Thomas smiled gently. "Thank you for giving him that chance."
Later that evening, Carter and I sat on the beach, watching the sunset paint the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks.
He looked out at the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was sinking into the sea. "Thank you for standing by me," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
"Always," I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder.
"I want to show you something tomorrow," he said after a while. "A special place."
The next morning, he led me to a secluded cove accessible only by a narrow path through dense vegetation. The small beach was framed by dramatic rock formations, creating a natural cathedral.
"This is where I would come when things got too much," Carter explained, his voice echoing slightly off the rocks. "My thinking spot."
"It's magical," I breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
Carter took my hands in his. "I've never brought anyone else here. Not even my dad knows about this place."
"Why me, then?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Because you've seen the darkest parts of me and stayed anyway," he said simply. "Because I don't want any more secrets between us. Because..." he hesitated, then continued, "because I think this might be where I start creating again. Really creating. And I want you to be part of that."
I blinked back tears. "I'd be honored."
CARTER's POV
Back home, we visited the rooftop where we first met.
The city stretched out beneath us, lights scattered like fallen stars across velvet darkness. The night was cool, calm—the kind of quiet that settled into your bones and made you remember what peace felt like. I hadn't been back here in years. Not since that night when everything changed.
Eight years ago.
Aishwariya leaned against the railing beside me, her hair catching the evening breeze like silk ribbons dancing in slow motion. There was a soft, familiar smile on her lips—the kind that held a thousand memories, the kind that said she remembered too. The way the moonlight touched her face made my heart skip the same way it did all those years ago.
"It looks smaller now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loud might break the spell of this moment.
"It felt like the edge of the world back then," I replied, remembering how infinite everything seemed when we were young and foolish and brave enough to believe in forever.
We stood there in silence for a moment. Not the awkward kind that begs to be filled with nervous chatter. The kind that's earned through years of knowing each other's rhythms, through fights and forgiveness, through learning that some things are too precious for words. The kind that lives between people who've seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway.
The city hummed below us—distant traffic, muffled music from open windows, the gentle whisper of wind through the buildings. But up here, wrapped in the cocoon of night and memory, it all felt like a lullaby.
"Thank you," she said then, the words floating between us like a prayer, like something that had been waiting on her tongue for a while, gathering weight and meaning.
I looked at her, really looked at her—at the woman she'd become, at the strength in her shoulders, at the love in her eyes. "For what?"
"For holding on," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "For showing up when I was too scared to ask you to. For becoming someone who lets love in instead of pushing it away. For being patient with my walls until I was ready to tear them down myself."
My chest tightened in the best way, that sweet ache that comes when someone sees straight through to your soul. I reached for her hand and held it, marveling at how perfectly her fingers fit between mine, like we were made from the same blueprint of longing.
"Thank you," I said, my voice rougher than I intended, "for staying. For never turning away, even when I gave you every reason to. For reminding me what it feels like to be seen—really seen—and still chosen. For teaching me that love isn't about being perfect; it's about being real."
Her fingers tightened around mine, and I felt the slight tremor in her hand that told me she was fighting back tears—the good kind, the kind that comes from being understood.
The breeze picked up, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from someone's garden below and the faint smell of rain that might come later. But right now, the sky was clear, painted with stars that seemed to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.
"I used to think love was supposed to be complicated," she said, leaning closer until I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "All those movies and books made it seem like if it wasn't dramatic and painful, it wasn't real."
"And now?"
"Now I know that real love is simple. It's choosing each other every day. It's this—standing on a rooftop talking about nothing and everything, feeling like home has nothing to do with geography and everything to do with whose hand you're holding."
I brought our joined hands to my lips and kissed her knuckles, tasting the salt of her skin, breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers—vanilla and something floral, something that made me think of Sunday mornings and lazy conversations over coffee.
We didn't need to say everything. The important things were already in the air around us, in the silence we shared, in the way she looked at me like I mattered—like I always had, even during the years when we lost touch, even during the times when we were too young and stupid to recognize what we had.
"I love you," she said, the words falling from her lips like they were the most natural thing in the world, like breathing or the way flowers turn toward the sun.
I smiled, feeling something settle into place inside my chest, something that had been restless and searching for years, finally finding its home. "I love you, too. I've loved you since that first night up here."
No fear of saying the wrong thing. No ghosts from the past whispering doubts in our ears. No need to prove ourselves worthy of love—we already knew we were, had learned it in the patient, daily practice of choosing each other.
Just love. Pure and simple and real. And the peace that came with knowing it was built on solid ground, on years of friendship and trust and the kind of understanding that can't be rushed or forced.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the moment, memorizing the feel of her against me, the way the city lights painted everything in gold and amber, the way the night wrapped around us like a blessing.
"We should probably head inside soon," she murmured against my shoulder, but neither of us moved.
"In a minute," I said, wanting to hold onto this perfect moment just a little longer. "I want to remember this exactly as it is."
She lifted her head to look at me, her eyes bright with unshed happy tears. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"Promise me we'll come back here every year. On this date. No matter what."
I cupped her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the single tear that had escaped. "I promise. Every year, for as long as we both shall live."
She kissed me then, soft and sweet and full of promises of her own. And as the city sparkled below us and the stars watched from above, I knew that some love stories don't end—they just keep beginning, over and over again, every time two people choose each other in the quiet moments that matter most.