"You're telling me all of this now? After all these years?" Harold's voice cracked. "You walked away from me because of them? Because of something they said? You didn't even give me a chance…"
She swallowed, her throat dry. "I didn't walk away because I wanted to," she whispered. "I had no choice. After my parents died, everything fell apart, Harold. And I couldn't drag you down with me."
"But I wanted to be with you," Harold said, his voice rising, strained. "I didn't care about the connections, Jerica. You were my world. Don't you see that? I would've stayed by your side, but you never gave me the chance to prove that."
She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. "Your mother made it clear I was no longer part of that world. It wasn't just words, Harold—it was actions, whispers behind closed doors, invitations that stopped coming. I was... disposable."
Harold's breath hitched, the hurt in his eyes deepening. "I would've fought for you," he said, voice trembling. "But now I learn that you never even let me."
Jerica's chest tightened. She turned toward him, her eyes glistening, the pain of the past still raw. "Maybe you would've. But I wasn't strong enough back then. I was barely holding myself together, Harold. I was filled with doubts and insecurity. Losing you would've destroyed me completely and I took the easy way out to save whatever pride I had left."
For a moment, the air between them felt too heavy, laden with all the unsaid words, the what-ifs, and the broken promises of their youth. The car felt small, suffocating under the weight of their shared history.
Harold exhaled shakily, his hand falling away from the door as his resolve crumbled. "I spent years wondering what I did wrong," he admitted, his voice low and vulnerable. "I thought I wasn't enough. That I couldn't be there for you."
"You couldn't," Jerica whispered. "No one could. I had to pull myself up."
The silence that followed was thick, oppressive—filled not with accusations or misunderstandings, but with the heavy weight of acceptance. Two people who had once been everything to each other, now standing on opposite shores, separated by a sea of time and pain.
Jerica reached for the door, her hand trembling slightly. "Goodbye, Harold," she said softly, her voice carrying the finality of years left unsaid.
But before she could step out, Harold's hand shot forward, grasping her arm. His touch was desperate, and the vulnerability in his grip startled her.
"Jeri…" he whispered, his voice cracking under the strain. A mist of unshed tears glossed over his eyes. "Come back to me. Let's… let's be together. You're not happy. I'm not happy. But we could be happy—together." His eyes were wide with a frantic, almost feverish plea as if he believed the world could simply be rewound.
Jerica let out a small, bitter scoff. "Let me go, Harold. We won't be together. Not now. Not ever."
"Why?" His grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin as if holding her tighter could keep her from slipping away. His voice had taken on a dangerous edge, a plea wrapped in anger.
"Because," Jerica said, her voice calm, though her heart raced in her chest, "We have to deal with our unhappiness ourselves. We won't find what we're missing in each other." She gently tugged her arm, trying to free herself. The tension in the car was suffocating, and the tinted windows suddenly felt like a barrier to the outside world. If things escalated, no one would see. She needed to de-escalate, to protect herself.
Harold had never crossed the line before, but at this moment, he was a stranger—unpredictable. Jerica's pulse quickened, and a flicker of fear crawled up her spine.
"Oh, stop with the psychological crap, Jerica!" Harold snapped, his frustration boiling over. "I've heard enough, and none of it works! From the day I lost you, nothing has worked!"
"Harold, I'm married. Happily," Jerica said, her voice steady, each word carefully chosen. She needed him to understand, to finally let go. "I can't just walk away like it's nothing. And even if I could, I don't love you anymore. I haven't loved you in—"
"Stop!" Harold's voice erupted, cutting through her sentence like a knife. His hands gripped the edge of the armrest, knuckles white, and his eyes burned with a wild mix of pain, anger, and desperation. "Stop lying to me! I know you're unhappy. If you're so happy in your marriage, why don't you have any kids yet? You always said you wanted two before you turned thirty—with me. What happened to that dream, Jerica?"
His words hit her like a gust of wind, unexpected and forceful. She froze, stunned by his accusation, by the rawness of his question. He wasn't just prying into her life; he was reopening old wounds she thought had scarred over. But before the weight of it could fully sink in, Harold surged forward, invading her space.
Jerica's back pressed against the seat, her breath hitching—not from fear, but from sheer shock. His closeness, the heat of his frustration, felt suffocating. But she wasn't scared. No, this wasn't fear. It was anger. Boiling, simmering, righteous anger.
"Harry!" Jerica raised her voice, sharp and commanding. "Stop this!"
"Stop what, huh?" Harold scoffed, his breath hot against her face, ruffling the fine baby hairs on her forehead. "Stop loving you? I still love you, Jerica! Did you forget it all? The happiness we had? We can have it all. We can have… us…" His voice cracked, and for a moment, she saw the man he used to be, drowning in his own confusion and loss.
With a determined look, Harold leaned in, his face inches from hers. The intention was unmistakable—an attempt to kiss her, to rekindle something that had long since burned to ashes.
Jerica's heart pounded as his face got magnified in front of her.