I held my breath as Dr. Aracelly looked up from her computer, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an unreadable expression. The weight of her gaze pressed down on me, and I could feel my stomach twist in knots. Anxiety crawled up my spine, making the air feel thick and heavy. Tristan, sensing the shift, tightened his grip on my hand, his fingers curling around mine.

Dr. Aracelly exhaled, breaking her stare, then flicked her gaze back to her screen before turning back to me.

"Your daughter is now in foster care," she said, her voice calm but laced with something I couldn't immediately place. A flicker of emotion, maybe pity or judgment—something I couldn't name—shadowed her words. I couldn't help but notice the way her eyes narrowed, like she was silently reprimanding me for something. 

"Foster care?" I repeated, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. "How?"

My mind raced. What had happened? Was Kayla okay? What had happened to the family who'd adopted her?  How had my sweet little girl ended up in foster care?

"Last year," Dr. Aracelly continued, her voice steady, "there was a terrible accident involving her adoptive parents. There were complications with other relatives, and the children's safety was compromised. So, we had to take them into our foster care program. She's safe now. A few months ago, a lovely family took her in. They've been with the program for ten years."

The words blurred as they fell from her lips. I couldn't bring myself to look at Tristan, afraid to see the hurt, the devastation, on his face. His grip on my hand loosened, his fingers slipping away from mine like sand in the wind. 

Dr. Aracelly's voice sliced through the silence, blunt and final. "I just reviewed your file. You know you can't have her back. It's the law. You signed all the papers. I'm sure you read them."

The words hit like a slap. I tried to breathe, to steady myself, but the air was too thin. I couldn't think straight.

Tristan didn't even flinch. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, his jaw clenched tight. "I don't give a shit about what she signed," he snapped, his voice low but filled with a growing fury. "Tell me where our daughter is."

His words hung in the air, thick with desperation, but Dr. Aracelly remained unmoved, her face impassive. I felt the tension in Tristan's body as he stood up, his patience unraveling in front of me. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," Dr. Aracelly said, her tone sharp and dismissive. She flipped open another file, signaling that the conversation was over. I glanced at Tristan, but he was already walking out, slamming the door behind him with a force that made my heart jump in my chest.

I sat there, stunned, the weight of the room pressing in on me. Dr. Aracelly was staring at me, her eyes unreadable. I felt like I was being judged, like every inch of my decision was being torn apart and weighed in the balance.

I stood up slowly, my legs shaky beneath me. My breath hitched in my throat as I reached for my bag. 

I turned on my heel and walked out, the heaviness in my chest growing with each step. The weight of failure, of loss, settled around me like a second skin. As I emerged from the office, I saw Tristan pacing near the entrance, his phone pressed to his ear. He was running his fingers through his hair, his movements frantic.

"Okay, get all the details you need and get back to me." He said to the person on the other line and ended the call.

As he hung up, I felt the weight of the silence between us settle in like a storm waiting to break. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, my voice fragile, testing the air, but the words felt too thin to cut through the tension.

"Yeah," he muttered, his jaw clenched. There was something about his tone that didn't match the word. Something between the syllables, a heaviness that made the space between us feel even more distant.

I tried to call Vina as we drove back to the hotel, my fingers shaking as I gripped the phone, trying to focus on her voice, her calm presence. But Tristan's quiet was like a storm building in the background. I could feel it swirling in his posture, in the tightness of his body, in the way his fingers tapped on his screen, his eyes hard as he looked through documents about court processes here in Cuba.

When we arrived, he didn't say a word, just got out of the car with that same determined pace that made my stomach twist. I followed him inside, feeling like a shadow trailing behind a storm. He went straight for the balcony, leaving me standing in the middle of the suite, the air between us thick with unspoken words.

I sank down onto the bed, sitting at its edge, hugging my knees to my chest. I heard him on the phone with Adrian, his voice rising in frustration. It was all anger and helplessness, the words blurred by curses as he railed against the possibility of never seeing Kayla again. I knew he was mad at me. He was angry with me for so many things—things I couldn't even fully understand myself. But he refused to admit it, even to himself.

When he ended the call, he stood there for a moment, his back to me. I saw him exhale a heavy breath, his shoulders tensing under the weight of his thoughts. He turned then, his eyes catching mine just for a second before he looked away and walked into the closet. I sat still, watching the muscles in his back move under his shirt as he changed. 

He emerged in a simple white shirt and gray lounge pants, but there was nothing simple about the way he carried himself, about the way his eyes avoided mine. It felt like a battlefield in the room, but I had no armor, no shield left.

"Say something, please," I begged, my voice breaking under the pressure. "Just... let it out."

He didn't respond at first, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. I could see the tension in his jaw, in the way his hands twitched at his sides like they were desperate to do something—anything—to fix the unbearable weight between us.

 "Why didn't you ever ask for help?" His voice was low, calm—but there was an undercurrent of hurt and disbelief in it. He stood there, his eyes locked on mine, waiting for an answer.

I felt the words sit at the tip of my tongue, but they tasted sour. "I was scared," I whispered, the truth scraping against my ribs.

His face hardened. "You should've asked for help, Chloe!" The words snapped like a whip. They hurt, and yet they were the truth. He was right.

"From who? The people that made me feel worthless? The people that might endanger my kids?"
I stood up and walked closer to him.

Tristan didn't respond, but I could see his face tighten, his muscles straining under the weight of what I was saying. He didn't understand, and maybe he never would. 

 He stepped closer to me, the anger and fear in his eyes mixing together into something sharper, more dangerous. "We could lose her, Chloe," he said, his voice tight, like the words were being dragged from the pit of his stomach. His gaze was fierce, protective, but also tinged with an unbearable sadness.

"You think I don't know that?" The words tore out of me, ragged and bitter, each one a confession I had buried for too long. I felt like I was unraveling, the weight of everything pressing down on me, suffocating me. "I was never planning on having a baby, especially twins. My life was a mess, and I was just trying to survive it. The last thing I wanted was to be pregnant with your child, Tristan. You think I wanted this?" My voice cracked, raw, frantic, but I couldn't stop. "There was nothing I could do. I was stuck, in a place where I didn't trust anyone—not even myself—and every decision I made, no matter how terrible, felt right in the moment."

I could feel Tristan's gaze on me, heavy, his chest tightening with every word, but I couldn't stop now.

"I was wrong, okay?" I choked out, every word weighing more than the last. "I know I was wrong. But I couldn't stand the thought of watching them suffer because I brought them into this world. It was my responsibility to give them something better than I had, something better than what my past could ever offer. I thought—I thought—keeping them away from the people who hurt me, from the chaos I was drowning in, would be the only way to protect them." I was shaking now, my hands trembling, but I couldn't stop.

"I wanted a new life for them," I whispered, broken. "A life that wasn't tainted by my mistakes."

"You had Vina, she would do anything for you. I know we all hurt you but the twins didn't deserve any of this."

The words felt like daggers. "You think it was that simple?" I spat, stepping closer, shaking my head. "You had no idea what I was going through, Tristan. You don't know how many times I almost made the choice to end it all, to just disappear. How many times I considered taking an abortion, or worse... how many nights I sat in the dark, my fingers curled into fists, wanting to scream but not knowing who to scream to. You don't know how close I was to drowning myself in the fucking bathtub, just to make everything go away. You think this was an easy decision? You think it was easy to give her away? To let her go?"

The words hit me like a tidal wave. "It haunts me. Every single day, every time I close my eyes, I wonder if I made the right choice. If I could have kept her—if I had done more, if I was stronger—she'd be with me, with her brother, where she belongs." I stumbled back, suddenly feeling the weight of the room close in around me. "But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who to turn to. And just so you know, Vina... Vina has her own life. She's done more for me than I could ever repay. She didn't owe me anything."

The room felt colder, quieter now, and Tristan's expression darkened, something sharp flashing across his face. He stepped forward, his eyes pleading, almost desperate. "So, the plan was to keep them away from me, forever? Even if you hated me, even after everything, you should have at least given me a chance to help." His voice cracked on the last word, raw, like the pieces of him were breaking in real-time.

I felt the words rush out before I could stop them, a mix of pain and regret. "I didn't know if they were going to be safe with you, Tristan—not after everything that happened. After all the mess, all the damage, keeping them a secret seemed like the only way to keep them safe." My voice wavered, my hands trembling, but there was no going back now. The truth was already spilled, like an open wound that couldn't be healed.

"You don't have to keep blaming me for your mistakes. I know I did horrible things to you in the past but you can't keep blaming me for every mistake you make. I know it was hard for you, I can't imagine what you went through keeping the twins and I always be grateful for your decision."

His words hung heavy in the air. I bit down on my lip, swallowing the lump in my throat, but the guilt, the weight of it, was too much. It was suffocating.

Tristan stepped forward again, his gaze soft but fierce, full of something I couldn't place. "You didn't have to do it all by yourself, Chloe. It's okay to ask for help. Kayla will still be here. With us. With her brother. But right now... right now, we don't even know what's going to happen in court. We might lose her. And I don't know if I can live with that." His words broke off, a rough breath escaping his lips as he looked down, his face pale. "I really fucked things up. I don't know how to fix it."

I watched him go, my heart shattering as the door slammed behind him.

I didn't know how long I stayed there, motionless, feeling the weight of every word, every regret. The tears came then, unrestrained and raw, falling like they were trying to wash away all the years of guilt and pain I had been hiding. I sobbed on the floor, the sound of my grief echoing in the room like the thunder of a storm.

I had been fooling myself for so long, thinking that maybe if I just forgot about her, if I erased the memory of Kayla from my heart, she wouldn't hurt so much. But the truth was unbearable. The thought of her hating me for what I did to her—what I didn't do—was tearing me apart.

The door creaked open. Through the blur of my tears, I couldn't see who it was at first. But then his voice cut through the fog of my thoughts.

"Hey..." Tristan's voice was softer now, almost broken, as he knelt in front of me. His hands reached for mine, gently lifting me from the floor. His grip was warm, comforting, as if trying to hold me together. He didn't say anything at first—just held me, like he was afraid to let go.

When I was finally standing, he pulled me into his arms, wrapping me around him like I was the only thing that mattered. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself lean into him. Let myself break.

"I'm so sorry," I sobbed, my voice muffled against his chest. "I didn't know how else to fix it... I didn't know what else to do..."

"Shh." His voice was a murmur, rough with emotion. "It was also my fault." He mumbled after a while.

He pulled me closer, tighter, as though the distance between us was the real enemy. I hugged him tightly, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt in a fist. I cried it all out. The guilt whipped through me like burning leashes. 

"I would do anything," Tristan said, his voice thick with emotion, "just to carry her in my arms, kiss her head, and tell her how much I love her." His hand stroked my back with a tenderness that sent a shiver through me, as if his touch alone could hold us together in this fragile moment.

 I felt the weight of every decision, every moment that had led us here—those decisions, made in fear, made in haste, had taken so much from him. And from me.

"I took that away from you," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I shouldn't have."

Before I could pull away, Tristan stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of his body a steady comfort. He brushed my tears away with the soft pads of his thumbs, and for a second, I couldn't breathe.

"I've gone through a lot with you, Chloe," he said, his voice low but full of sincerity. "I'm a father again... you gave me another chance, and I won't ruin that. I promise you." His words were tender, but the weight of them—of everything we had been through—made them seem both sacred and heartbreaking. He paused, his eyes searching mine. "I wish I never lied to you. I regret it every single day."

With each word, he continued to caress my face, his touch tracing my skin like a whisper. It felt like he was trying to erase the past, trying to heal what had been shattered between us, between him and Kayla. 

"To heal," he continued, his voice thick, "I had to let go of the guilt. To stop blaming myself for what happened with Fiona and Nadia, to focus on the present... and the future. You and the kids are my present and my future." His voice cracked at the last words, his gaze momentarily dropping as if he were fighting to stay composed.

I reached up and placed my hand over his, feeling the tremor in his fingers. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Thank you for keeping the twins. I will forever be grateful. It's the greatest gift I could ever ask for."

I pulled away just slightly, enough to meet his gaze, and my throat tightened with the urge to give him something, anything that might help us heal. I hesitated before speaking again, my voice barely above a whisper. "I have her pictures on my phone if you'd like to see."

He was quiet for a long moment, and I could feel the internal battle inside him. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely audible. "I have hope we'll get her back," he said, his eyes focused on the floor, not looking at me. His words were full of conviction, but there was something in the way he said it—like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was convincing me.

"I know," I answered softly, my voice tight with emotion. It was the truth, but it didn't feel like enough. I wanted to believe, but my own doubt held me back, wrapping itself around my heart like a cold vice.

He exhaled sharply, a sound that was more like a release than a breath, and pulled away from me. "Yes, I want to see her," he said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable.

I grabbed the phone from the bed, my hands trembling as I unlocked the screen. My fingers hovered over the photos, each one a painful reminder of what we had lost and what we still had a chance to gain. Finally, I settled on the first picture—one of Kayla, just hours old, her face still round with the sweetness of a newborn, swaddled in hospital blankets. I handed him the phone, and he took it with quiet reverence.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the photo, his voice barely audible. "I'm nervous... and it's just a picture." He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the phone like a lifeline. I sat beside him, offering him the comfort of my presence.

He stared at the image for what felt like an eternity, his expression unreadable, and then, with a sad smile that twisted something deep inside of me, he blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. Guilt, sorrow, love—every emotion seemed to collide in that single moment. His lips parted, but no words came. His shoulders shook slightly, and he buried his face in his palm, stifling a sob he wasn't prepared to let out.

I swiped to the next photo, the one of Kayla at two months, laughing in the sunlight, her tiny fist curled in her mouth, her eyes wide with innocent wonder.

Tristan exhaled a shaky breath, the sound raw, as if he were trying to breathe through a knot lodged in his chest.

"I'll make us some coffee," I said quietly, needing to give him some space, to let him process. I stood up slowly and walked into the small kitchen, trying to gather my own thoughts, my own emotions.

A few minutes later, I returned with the coffee. He looked up from the photo, but his expression was distant now, his mind somewhere else, still lost in the thoughts of the child we might never get back.

The silence between us stretched, heavy and thick. And then, almost as if the words were escaping him, Tristan spoke.  

"How was it?" he asked, a tightness in his tone, like he was afraid to hear the answer. "Pregnant... and all alone?"

The question hung in the air between us, the weight of it heavier than I expected. Before I could even open my mouth, he was already searching my face, looking for something—an answer, maybe. Something that would explain it all.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Terrifying," I answered quietly, lowering myself next to him on the bed. I handed him his coffee, the warmth of the cup barely doing anything to steady my shaking hands. I let out a long breath, trying to hold it together as I spoke. "I stayed in Cuba for months after I found out. I didn't know what to do, where to turn... I was so lost. Everything felt like a blur. The loneliness... I could hardly even breathe through it some days."

His eyes softened as I spoke, but there was still a storm brewing behind them. Tristan didn't say anything at first. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, the silence stretching between us like a fragile bridge. His phone rang, cutting through the moment.

He stiffened immediately, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anxiety and impatience. "It's my lawyer," he said, his voice rough. "I told him to do some research on the case and get back to me."

The unease in his voice was unmistakable. I watched as he stood up and walked toward the balcony, holding the phone to his ear. I could feel the tension rising in him, an undercurrent of fear that seemed to vibrate in the air between us. The sound of the call was muffled, but his words still cut through the silence.

"So how do we file for it?" Tristan's voice was tight, strained, like he was fighting to keep his composure. "What court? Is there any paperwork to do? How long is it gonna take?"

I could hear the rest of the conversation more clearly now, the muffled voice on the other end trying to calm him down. "It's not that easy, Sir," the lawyer explained, his tone patient but firm. "You have to file a request with the court to have your parental rights restored. That could take months, possibly more. It's a complicated process. But I promise I'll do everything I can to expedite it. The good news is, you can see your daughter soon. I've pulled every string I could to make this happen. I'll check the schedule and see when they can fit you in. I'll have everything lined up for you."

I sat there, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. The words "see your daughter" echoed in my mind, but it wasn't enough.  I watched Tristan's shoulders sag slightly, like the news didn't give him the relief he was hoping for. It wasn't a guarantee. It wasn't her in his arms. And I could see the desperation building in him again, like a wave that wouldn't break.

When he hung up, he stayed out on the balcony for a while, his back to me, his hands gripping the railing, his entire body clenched tight with frustration.  After what felt like an eternity, he turned back toward me, his face shadowed by the dimming light of the room. His eyes, dark with emotion, met mine.

"We're getting her back, Chloe," he said softly, more to himself than to me, as if saying it out loud might make it more real. And maybe it would. 

"There's a possibility," he said, voice laced with a quiet excitement, "we might actually get her back. Since you gave her up without my consent, we have a shot." He perched beside me on the bed, his proximity almost too much to bear. He smelled like hope, like fresh air after a storm.

I turned toward him, the pit in my stomach growing with each word. "Do you think we're really going to get her back?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound steady. "What if they dig deeper into our lives? All the mess, all the mistakes we've made—"

Before I could finish, he cut me off, his thumb gently brushing against my palm as if to steady me, to remind me I wasn't alone in this.

"Hey," he took my hand more firmly, locking his fingers around mine. "Yes, we both messed up in different ways. But we deserve to be in our daughter's life. I believe that. And I'm not losing hope, Chloe."

I nodded, though my mind raced with doubt. The past seemed insurmountable, a mountain of mistakes and pain that I wasn't sure we could climb. 

"We're going to get through this," he whispered, his voice low and intimate as he brushed his thumb along my chin, gently lifting my face so our eyes locked. His gaze was unwavering, searching my soul with such quiet intensity that it sent a shiver down my spine.

I nodded again, my throat tight, a weak smile barely curving my lips. His touch was soft—too soft—and yet it lit something inside of me, something that had been dormant for so long. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, sending electric currents through my skin, stirring up feelings I had tried so hard to bury. Every time he touched me, every time his eyes softened like that, it felt like the past was both a lifetime ago and just yesterday. The anger, the hatred, all of it seemed to dissolve under his touch, like the years we spent apart never really existed.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my skin. I could feel the pull between us, a magnetic force that neither of us could resist. He hesitated, just a hair's breadth away, his lips almost brushing mine. I tilted my head slightly, closing the distance between us, but still unsure.

His eyes flickered to my lips before he let his nose slide gently against mine, breathing me in like he was starving for this moment. His fingers slid to the back of my neck, his touch possessive yet tender, and I felt my body react to him before my mind could catch up. The breath in my chest faltered, and then—finally—he pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring the very essence of me. I kissed him back instinctively, my body leaning into him, my fingers pressing into the bed to steady myself. The kiss deepened, hunger and longing pouring from both of us like a dam breaking after years of being held back. His lips were soft but urgent, a promise and a plea all at once. The sound of him groaning against my mouth pulled something from me, something raw and real, and I let go—just for a moment—of everything that had held me back.

But the kiss didn't last long. Reality snapped back in, and we broke apart, gasping for air, our hearts pounding in unison.

He didn't pull away entirely. His forehead rested against mine, both of us panting, our breaths mixing together. His voice was a hushed whisper, the words hanging in the air, vulnerable and unguarded.

"I've been dying to do that since I saw you at the park," he confessed, a soft laugh escaping him, the warmth of his smile making me forget for a second all the weight we were carrying.

I couldn't respond right away. My mind was still reeling, my body still trembling from the intensity of that kiss. 

His eyes softened, and he kissed my forehead, gentle but full of something deeper, something I couldn't quite put into words. In that moment, all the mess, all the pain, seemed a little less heavy.

"I don't know where we stand right now, but I'll always be here for you—and for the kids. I promise."

The sincerity in his words struck me like a blow to the chest. I wanted to believe him, to reach out and take what he was offering. But the scars from the past were still there, etched deep into my soul. And yet, his promise, his raw honesty, began to chip away at the walls I'd built around myself.

I moved closer to him, my arms instinctively wrapping around him, pulling him into the safety of my embrace. I needed him—needed someone to remind me that I was still alive, still worthy of love, even after all I had done. His arms circled me, pulling me closer, and without a word, he guided me onto his lap. I settled there, my legs wrapping around his waist, burying my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him that somehow still felt like home.

For a long while, we sat like that, tangled together in a fragile cocoon of shared warmth and unsaid words. Tristan stroked my back in long, soothing motions, his touch unraveling the tightness in my chest, making me feel things I thought I had long forgotten. His fingers gently traced the curves of my spine, the tenderness in each movement weakening my resolve, making the distance I had kept from him feel all the more unbearable.

And then, in the quiet of the room, we called Nora to speak to Kayden who kept poking the phone and pressing his face to the phone while shouting, 'mommy' 

But it didn't escape me that he still hadn't said Tristan's name—not yet. He hadn't called him "dad" or "papa." I knew that would take time. But for now, I was content to see him reaching for the phone, his little face lighting up as he saw us, as he recognized the people who loved him.

∆

The sunlight poured through the hotel curtains, bathing the room in a warm golden glow when I woke up. The bed beside me was empty, and the quiet weight of his absence tugged at my chest. I rolled over, blinking away the haze of sleep, and spotted Tristan. His tall, muscular frame was silhouetted against the bright sky as he stood on the balcony, the morning light reflecting off his bare skin. The coffee in his hand steamed in the cool morning air, and the lazy way his sweats hung low around his waist made my heart stumble a little.

Without thinking, I slipped on the hotel robe and padded toward the balcony. "Hey," I murmured, poking him gently on the back.

He turned, his face breaking into that easy smile I had missed more than I cared to admit. The soft lines around his eyes seemed lighter now, his presence more grounded. Putting his coffee down, he faced me.

His smile lingered for a moment before his expression shifted to something more serious. "My attorney is on his way here. We've got a lot to do."

"Okay, I'll take a shower."

We ate a quiet breakfast, the air between us filled with unspoken thoughts about what happened last night, both of us feeling the weight of the coming day. I was nervous—about the hearing, about facing Kayla—but also about what this meant for us, for Tristan and me. Could we really fix this? Could I make things right for our daughter?

The knock on the door came an hour later, breaking my spiraling thoughts. Tristan went to answer it, and when I heard the deep, confident voice of his lawyer, I stood up, trying to shake the nerves that had settled in my stomach.

A lean man stepped inside, his stride purposeful and filled with quiet authority. His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his black turtleneck complemented the sharp lines of his gray suit perfectly. A plump woman followed closely behind, trying to match his pace while balancing an iPad in one hand and a designer handbag in the other.

"Andrew," Tristan said, extending a hand with a warm smile.

The man grinned back, his eyes twinkling with a mix of charm and efficiency. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting?"

Tristan chuckled. "It's fine, welcome to Cuba."

We spent the rest of the day with Andrew, discussing everything from the questions the judge might ask us to the careful narrative we'd need to construct for why I had the twins in Cuba. It felt like every word, every detail mattered. My mind raced, but I couldn't let myself falter. Tristan was right there beside me, focused, committed, making sure everything was in place.

Dinner was a quiet affair, a break from the mental exhaustion. Afterward, Andrew and his personal assistant left, and Tristan made a call to Dr. Aracelly. He wanted to know if there was any chance we could meet Kayla before the court hearing. When he hung up, his face lit up with a small, hopeful smile.

"We'll see her tomorrow," he said, the weight of that promise settling between us.

It was all Tristan and I talked about the whole night, making guesses about how she would look now, the sound of her voice, and how she would have grown. I found myself caught between excitement and fear. Would she remember me? Would she hate me for everything I'd done? 

As we drove to the agency the next day, I tried to calm my nerves. I called Vina, needing her steady presence.

"Go get your daughter, Chlo, I'm sure she misses you," Vina added.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the building, and I felt my heart skip. This was it. The moment that had felt impossible only days ago was now real, looming just beyond the door.

Tristan squeezed my hand tighter, his presence a steady anchor beside me. He didn't say anything, but the way he looked at me—soft but determined—spoke louder than words. He was here. We were in this together.

"Oh my god, this is really happening," I whispered to Tristan as we walked into the building hand-in-hand.