Marx

I sit on the edge of my bed, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. What the hell am I doing? I told Fowler I'd back off, that I wouldn't mess with Emersyn's emotions anymore. Yet here I am, doing just that.

I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. I was going to keep my distance, leave her be. Be a friend, but nothing more.

I'm not the man who can give her what she needs, what she deserves. She deserves the world, and I can't offer her even a fraction of that.

But damn it, when I saw her there, naked and spread out on the couch, with Fowler between her thighs... I should've just kept walking to my room. I should've ignored it. But I couldn't. My legs wouldn't move. And when they finally did, they took me closer to her instead of away.

Fuck.

Fowler knew what he was doing to me. He's aware of this struggle inside me, this fight I'm having with myself. He knows I want her. Hell, he wants me to have her as badly as I want to take her.

But I can't.

I shouldn't.

It was torture, walking away from her. She was right there, on the floor, so close. I could've had her, had everything I wanted. And the worst part? She would've given it to me. She would've willingly given me it all.

I lift my head and look around the room. It's filled with shadows, just like the ones filling my mind. I stand up and pace, my steps heavy, matching the weight in my heart.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep putting myself in situations where I'm tempted to cross a line I vowed not to cross.

But who am I kidding? I crossed that line the moment I let myself want her. And every second I spend fighting this desire is a second wasted, a second I could've spent making her happy.

But what if I can't make her happy?

What if I'm not enough?

I stop pacing and look at myself in the mirror. The man staring back at me is a man in conflict, torn between what he wants and what he thinks is right. But the more I look into my own eyes, the more I see it—the hunger, the yearning.

I can't keep lying to myself. I want her. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. And maybe, just maybe, I can be the man she deserves. Maybe I can give her a fraction of the world she deserves.

But for that to happen, I need to stop running from this. I need to face it, face her, and find out if what I'm feeling is real.

With a heavy sigh, I walk into my walk-in closet. I stretch, reaching to the very back of the top shelf. My fingers brush against a small, dusty box. A box that holds my past, a box that's the reason I vowed never to fall in love again.

I take the box down and sit on a stool in the corner of the closet. The weight of what's inside is almost too much to bear.

Opening the lid, I pull out a stack of photographs. The first one shows a younger me, smiling brightly, arm in arm with a beautiful woman. She has long, wavy blonde hair and eyes that sparkle like diamonds. We looked so happy, so in love. We were still in college when this was taken.

I flip through the photos, each one a snapshot of a moment in time, forever frozen.

The first one shows us at a beach, the sun setting behind us, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. She's wearing a white sundress, and I can almost hear her laughter, feel the sand between my toes.

I remember that day; we built a sandcastle, only to watch the tide wash it away. "Nothing lasts forever," she had said, but I had hoped we would be the exception.

The next photo is from a Christmas morning, her in red pajamas and me in a Santa hat. We're sitting in front of a tree, surrounded by unwrapped gifts. I remember how she loved the holidays, how she'd fill the house with the scent of baked cookies and pine.

She was always baking, the way Emersyn does. As soon as I think that thought, I regret it. I regret comparing two women who are so wildly different.

Another flip reveals us on a hiking trail, standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sea of trees with autumn-colored leaves. She was always the adventurous one, pulling me into the wild, away from my comfort zone. She made me feel alive.

I keep flipping, my fingers trembling now. Here we are at a fancy dinner, both of us dressed up. She's in a black evening gown, and I'm in a suit. We look like we belong on a magazine cover, but what the photo doesn't show is the nervousness I felt that night. It was our first anniversary, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

More photos pass through my fingers. Us at a friend's wedding, her catching the bouquet and winking at me.

A lazy Sunday morning in bed, her reading a book and me playing with her hair.

Each photo awakens a dormant memory, each a bittersweet reminder of a past life.

Until I reach a photo that makes my heart stop. It's me, holding her swollen belly, my hands curved around the shape of our future. She's holding an ultrasound photo, her arms outstretched as if presenting our unborn child to the world.

I remember the joy I felt that day. My eyes sting, and I feel my heart shattering all over again, the pieces scattering like the faded memories these photos represent.

I continue flipping through the stack of memories, and then I find it—a picture that feels like a punch to the gut. It's me, holding a tiny newborn swaddled in a soft, pink blanket.

Our little girl.

Her eyes are closed, but her tiny fist is clenched, as if ready to take on the world. My eyes in the photo are brimming with tears of joy, a smile so wide it looks like it could split my face in two. I can almost feel the weight of her in my arms, the softness of her skin, the intoxicating scent of new life that filled the hospital room. A tear slides down my cheek as I hold the photo, trembling in my hands.

The next photo captures a moment from our little girl's first birthday party. In it, I'm standing beside a colorful cake topped with a single candle, a '1' shaped in pink frosting. Our baby is seated in a high chair, her face smeared with cake, giggling in pure delight. I'm leaning over her, my eyes full of love and laughter, wearing a party hat slightly askew on my head. Streamers and balloons fill the background, a vivid splash of colors that once represented the joy and promise of our young family.

I can almost hear the laughter, the happy birthday song, the soft clapping of hands. My face in that picture holds the last remnants of genuine, unguarded happiness. A snapshot of a moment right before everything unraveled. Before the world I had built crumbled to pieces. Before I lost them both.

I put the photos back into the box and dig a little deeper. My fingers touch another box, smaller, a black velvet one trimmed in gold. I open it, and there it is—the engagement ring I bought all those years ago. A ring that never got to be worn. A ring that now only serves as a painful reminder of a life that could have been, if that life hadn't been a lie.

I close the small box and place it back inside the larger one. I close the lid, sealing away my past once more. I put the box back on the top shelf, tucking it away, hiding it like I've tried to hide the pain it represents.

As I walk back into my room, I know I can't let things go further with Emersyn. The fear of history repeating itself holds me back. I might call it wisdom, but maybe it's just weakness.

I've never claimed to be strong.

I lie down on my bed, the weight of my past, my mistakes, my losses, pulling me into a restless sleep.

Maybe fearing the unknown makes me weak, but it's a weakness I'll have to carry. Because the alternative—opening myself up to the possibility of experiencing that kind of loss again—is a risk I'm not sure I can take. It broke me last time and I haven't been a whole man since.

As I close my eyes, the darkness isn't just in the room; it's in my soul, a part of me, a reminder of why I can't have what I so desperately want.

And as sleep finally takes me, it's not a peaceful slumber but one filled with dreams of what could be and nightmares of what has been.

Tomorrow is another day, but it's a day where I have to continue to live with my choices, my fears, and the walls I've built so high around my heart that I wonder if they'll ever come down.

I drift into a troubled sleep, the faces of two women—one from my past, and one who could be my future—haunting my dreams. And I'm left to wonder if I'll ever find the courage to tear down those walls, or if I'll forever be a prisoner to my own fears.