June stood outside the hospital, gripping the fruit basket tighter than she should. The cool night breeze brushed against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the tension tightening in her chest. She had spent the entire ride here replaying memories of her father, the man who used to hold her hand when crossing the street, the one who let her win their biscuit-eating contests, who used to tell her bedtime stories with the most animated voices.
That man was gone.
Now, all she had was a ghost of a father, someone who had left without looking back. And yet, here she was, standing outside his door, heart pounding against her ribs.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open.
The room smelled of antiseptic, the walls too white, too clinical. Machines beeped softly in the background, monitoring the frail-looking man lying in the hospital bed. The moment her eyes landed on him, her throat tightened.
He looked… smaller. Thinner. Weaker.
His dark eyes, once filled with life, now seemed hollow, distant. But when they lifted and met hers, something flickered. Recognition? Guilt? She wasn't sure.
Samantha, the half-sister she never wanted, was already seated beside him, her expression wary as she turned toward June.
"Are you happy to see her? She's here," Samantha said gently, watching for a reaction.
Silence.
Her father exhaled slowly, looking away. "It would be best if she didn't show up. I don't think I'm ready to see her."
June froze.
The words hit like a slap.
Not again.
Her fingers curled into her dress, nails digging into the fabric as she forced herself to breathe.
He was rejecting her.
Again.
"But why not?" Samantha pressed, frustration slipping into her voice. "I think it's time you reconcile with her. She's also your daughter, Dad."
He swallowed hard, gaze still averted. "With a father like me, it's better to have none. I really hope the years have wiped me from her memories. I can only be a father to you."
June's grip on the basket tightened until her knuckles turned white.
That was it.
Whatever fragile hope she had foolishly held onto shattered completely.
She let out a small, bitter laugh, barely above a whisper.
"Right," she murmured, her voice void of emotion. "I should have known better."
She stepped forward, setting the basket down beside the bed with forced composure. "I brought these for you. But since you clearly don't need me, you probably don't need them either."
With that, she turned on her heel, heading straight for the door.
"June, wait!" Samantha called after her, but June didn't stop.
She couldn't.
If she did, she might break apart right here, in front of him.
The moment she stepped outside, she spotted the nearest trash can and, without a second thought, dumped the basket inside. She didn't care. What was the point?
She had been willing to let the past go. She had been willing to listen, to understand. She had even imagined hugging him, telling him that despite everything, she still wanted to try.
But he didn't want her.
Not now.
Not ever.
Inside the Room
Samantha turned back to her father, anger and disappointment clear in her eyes.
"Did you really have to do that?" she asked, arms crossing tightly over her chest. "You say you love her, that you miss her, but when she finally gives you a chance, you push her away again. Why?"
He remained silent, staring at the wall as if it held all the answers.
Samantha exhaled sharply. "Both you and Mom. You keep running from your mistakes instead of trying to fix them. Why are you making this so difficult for me?"
Her father let out a slow, weary breath, his fingers trembling slightly as he rested them on the blanket.
"I remember her," he admitted quietly. "Her face, her laughter, the way she used to cling to me when she was little. And I remember the day I walked away. I have never forgotten it."
His voice wavered, thick with something unspoken.
"Then why do this?" Samantha demanded.
"Because it's better this way."
Samantha frowned. "Better for who?"
"For her."
Finally, he looked at his daughter, his tired eyes reflecting years of regret.
"I don't have much time left, Samantha," he confessed. "And I'd rather have her hate me forever than let her love me just to break her heart again."
Samantha's breath hitched.
"You're sick," she whispered, realization dawning.
He gave a slow, sad nod. "I'm dying."
The weight of those words pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe.
"Then shouldn't you be trying to make things right?" she asked, voice trembling.
"I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I can't explain why I left, why I never came back, why I chose the life I did. How am I supposed to tell her that she wasn't born out of love but out of compromise? That she was a mistake I hoped to erase?"
Samantha flinched. "Dad…"
"The love she grew up believing in? It was fake. The happy family she thought she had? A lie. If I tell her the truth, I'll only hurt her more." He let out a bitter chuckle. "At least if she hates me, she can move on. She can live without the weight of my mistakes on her shoulders."
Samantha blinked back tears, her chest aching. "You're wrong. She deserved a father, and you took that from her. No matter how much you try to justify it, you were selfish."
He closed his eyes. "I know."
And yet, he still believed this was the only way.
Samantha bit her lip, looking at the door June had walked out of.
Would she ever forgive him?
Maybe not.
But she deserved the truth.
And Samantha wasn't sure she could keep it from her much longer.
….
After an emotional visit to the hospital, where her father rejected her yet again, June barely had time to process her pain before throwing herself back into work. Hosting Bring Love to Life, a show meant to mediate and reconcile relationships, had always been her way of helping others find peace, even when she couldn't find her own. But today's case hit too close to home.
"Okay, we're live in one, two, three."
The voice of the director rang through her earpiece, grounding her back into the moment.
June straightened her posture, crossing one leg over the other as she placed her hand delicately on her lap. A warm, practiced smile curved her lips.
"Welcome to Bring Love to Life! I'm your host, June. And today, we have a rather interesting case with us." Her gaze shifted toward her guests. "Please welcome Sarah and Mr. Black."
The camera panned to the couple seated beside her, tension evident in the stiff way they sat. Accompanying them were three individuals who had insisted on being part of the discussion—witnesses or protesters, June wasn't sure yet. What she did know was that she hadn't planned on hosting today. She was supposed to be on sick leave, but when she read through the details of this case, she couldn't resist.
She had to be here.
"Sarah, let's start with you," June said, turning her attention to the young woman. "Tell us what's going on. What's the issue, and what do you hope to achieve today?"
Sarah exhaled, glancing briefly at the woman seated beside her before responding.
"My husband keeps finding issues with my mother staying at our home," she said, her tone edged with frustration. "He thinks she's a burden, and he won't stop scolding. He even started coming home late, and on the days he does come home, it's always in the dead of night."
June's gaze drifted toward the woman sitting next to Sarah. Their resemblance was impossible to miss—the same shoulder-length dark hair, the same hazel eyes, even the same beauty mark on the right side of their lips.
It wasn't hard to put the pieces together.
"And why do you think he behaves this way?" she asked, shifting her focus back to Sarah.
"I have no idea," Sarah huffed. "He's just impossible."
Something in her tone made June pause. She wasn't being completely honest. But that was June's job—to dig deeper, to find the truth beneath the surface.
She turned to Mr. Black, who sat rigidly, his fingers laced together on his lap. He had the build of a model—sharp jawline, lean frame, and ginger-dyed hair that complemented his warm, cat-like eyes.
"Mr. Black," June addressed him, tilting her head slightly. "You've heard what your wife said. Can you tell us your side? Why do you come home late? And what's the issue with your mother-in-law staying with you?"
He let out a slow breath before responding.
"My issue isn't that she's staying with us," he said, his voice measured, careful. "It's her attitude. She complains about everything I do. If I buy her something, she never appreciates it—she just finds fault in it. And worst of all, ever since she moved in, my wife has changed."
"Changed how?"
Sarah scoffed, cutting in before he could answer. "Oh, here we go again." She shot a glare at her husband.
June watched them closely, taking note of every detail—the subtle shift in body language, the way Sarah's mother smirked at the exchange, as if amused by the tension.
"Mr. Black," June pressed, ignoring Sarah's interruption. "Why do you believe your mother-in-law is a bad influence on your wife?"
"Since she came into our home, Sarah has stopped dressing the way she used to," he said, his voice tinged with resentment. "She goes out more, parties more, and picks fights over things that never used to bother her before. And most importantly, her mother constantly tells her I'm not the right man for her."
Sarah's lips parted in protest, but June spoke before she could.
"And why do you think your mother says that, Sarah?" she asked, her voice steady.
"There's nothing wrong with my mother wanting the best for me," Sarah argued. "I spend time with her because I just found her."
The audience murmured at the confession.
June's fingers twitched slightly.
"You just found her?" she repeated, her tone unreadable.
Sarah hesitated. "Yes… after twenty-five years."
June's stomach twisted.
Twenty-five years.
Sarah's mother had abandoned her.
And yet she was here now—sitting beside her, acting as if she had never left.
June's mind raced.
She had seen this before. She had lived this before.
"You only just found her," June echoed, her voice carrying a weight that hadn't been there before. "After twenty-five years."
Sarah shifted in her seat. "Yes, but she explained why. It was a mistake. She was young."
"And you believed her?" June pressed, her voice tightening despite herself.
"Yes. I believe she's changed. Whatever she did in the past, it's in the past."
Mr. Black scoffed. "You're blind. She abandoned you at an orphanage and never looked back. She only came to find you now because she needed a place to stay. And you welcomed her with open arms."
Sarah's fingers clenched into her lap. Her mother lowered her gaze, while Mr. Black exhaled sharply, a flicker of regret flashing across his face.
June leaned forward slightly, her own emotions simmering beneath the surface.
"Let's be clear about something," she said, her voice firm. "This isn't just a simple family disagreement. Your mother—this woman you just reconnected with—left you as a child. Never called. Never wrote. And now she's back, and you're ready to throw away your marriage for someone who never wanted you in the first place?"
Sarah's head snapped up. "That's not true!"
"Isn't it?" June challenged. "People like that… they don't change. They don't love anyone but themselves. And when they leave, they don't come back—unless they need something."
The tension in the room thickened.
June felt the weight of her own words pressing down on her.
This wasn't about Sarah anymore.
It was about her.
Her father.
Her own wounds.
"You're better off without parents like them," she said, her voice lower now, but no less sharp. "They're selfish. They only love themselves."
Silence.
And then—
The screen went black.
The broadcast had been cut.
June barely registered the staff members approaching her, their expressions tense as they motioned for her to follow them.
After the Show
"What the hell was that?!"
The second June stepped out of the recording room, Linda—her producer—was on her, voice laced with frustration.
June opened her mouth, but Linda held up a hand.
"Your job," she continued, jabbing a finger toward her, "is to mediate. To bring people together. Not light a damn fire under them!"
June exhaled, trying to steady herself.
"I just told the truth," she muttered.
Linda pinched the bridge of her nose. "I get it, June. I do. This case is personal for you. But that's not how this works. You're supposed to give people closure—a happy ending, not a mess like this."
June looked away.
Linda sighed, softer this time.
"This is what's going to happen," she said, more composed now. "You're going to take the rest of the day off. I'll have them rescheduled for tomorrow. Go home. Rest. Clear your head."
With that, Linda turned, walking off toward her office.
June stood there for a moment, hands trembling at her sides.
She had lost control.
For the first time since she became a host, she had let her emotions consume her.
And now…
She didn't know if she could take them back.
…..
The elevator ride felt like an eternity.
June leaned against the metallic wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Normally, she kept her cool no matter how frustrating or personal a case got, but today had been different. She had lost control—on live television, no less.
She sighed, rubbing her temples as the events of the show replayed in her mind. She wasn't even supposed to be working today. She should have been home, nursing the wounds left by that hospital visit. Maybe then she wouldn't have let her emotions slip.
But how could she not?
Sarah's story had mirrored her own so much that it had been impossible to stay objective. Just like Sarah, June had a parent who abandoned her. Just like Sarah, she had been foolish enough to hope for reconciliation. And just like Sarah, she had been met with disappointment.
She exhaled sharply as the elevator came to a halt, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. But as soon as she stepped out, she nearly collided with someone.
Dave.
Her stomach twisted. The last person she wanted to see right now.
He took a step back, his expression unreadable. But there was something hesitant in his eyes—something different from the usual smug confidence he carried.
"About last night…" he started, his voice low, careful.
June's jaw tightened. She had been bracing herself for this conversation ever since she left the house that morning.
"Can we not talk about it?" she cut him off, her voice sharper than she intended. "Let's just pretend it didn't happen."
Dave's brows furrowed. "June.."
She shook her head, stepping past him. Not now. She wasn't in the right headspace for this.
Her emotions were already too raw. Between the disastrous talk show and the gut-wrenching meeting with her father, she didn't have the energy to deal with this.
With him.
Because, come to think of it, he was the one who convinced her to go see her father in the first place. He was the one who filled her head with foolish ideas of closure and second chances.
And what did she get for it?
Nothing.
Nothing but another rejection.
If she had just stayed away, if she had never entertained the thought, she wouldn't be feeling this mess right now.
"Just forget about it, Dave," she said, running a hand over her face. "Whatever happened last night—it meant absolutely nothing."
The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
Dave's entire expression shifted. His jaw clenched, a flicker of hurt flashing through his eyes before he masked it.
"Nothing?" he repeated, his tone quiet but sharp. "Is that really what you think?"
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Yes."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "Well, it wasn't nothing to me."
June exhaled heavily. Why was he making this so difficult?
"Dave—"
"I don't do things carelessly," he interrupted, his voice firm. "I don't just stumble into situations like that. What happened last night—meant something to me. And I know it meant something to you too, no matter how hard you try to deny it."
She flinched, looking away.
Because the truth was—he wasn't wrong.
It did mean something.
Last night, when her emotions were spiraling, when she felt completely unanchored—he had been there. And in a moment of weakness, she had reached for him. She had let her walls slip. She had let herself feel.
And she hated herself for it.
Because now, in the harsh light of day, it was clear that it had been a mistake.
"You don't have to take responsibility for anything," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "It happened. It's over. We move on."
Dave's expression darkened. "I want to take responsibility."
June let out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "For what? There's nothing to take responsibility for. Shit happens, Dave. Let's just scrap it."
His frustration visibly spiked. "You might be able to brush it off like nothing, but I can't."
"Why not?" she snapped.
"Because I care, damn it!" His voice was no longer calm. "Because I meant every second of it. Because I meant every touch, every word. And you know what, June? You did too. But instead of dealing with it, you're running. Again."
Her breath hitched.
No.
He doesn't get to say that.
"You don't know anything about me," she hissed.
"I know enough," he shot back. "I know that every time something real happens between us, you shut it down. I know that the second things get too close, you push me away. And I know that last night scared you, not because it was a mistake, but because it wasn't."
Her fingers curled into fists.
"Listen, Dave," she said coldly, "we're both grown-ups. And I'm certain that wasn't our first time being with someone, so let's not make a big deal out of it."
Casual. Indifferent. That's how she needed to sound.
But her heart was pounding too hard, her breath coming too fast.
Dave's eyes burned into hers, searching, questioning.
And then, his expression shifted. A flicker of something, pain, disappointment, before he masked it.
"If you don't want to be taken care of," he said quietly, "then fine. But I want to be taken seriously."
She let out a sharp breath.
"Well, don't," she muttered, stepping past him.
"June." His voice was firm, stopping her in her tracks. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore."
Her heart clenched.
"What?" she whispered.
"I can't keep being just your fake boyfriend," he said, his tone heavier now. "Not after yesterday. Not after this."
Her throat tightened.
"Then don't," she forced out. "I don't care anymore. I'm tired, Dave. I don't want to do this."
A pause.
His silence was louder than his words.
Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "What happened last night was not a mistake, June. You know that. You felt that."
She turned away, gripping the door handle.
"I don't wish to repeat it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
And with that, she walked inside, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.