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journalofmoonlight · 9 days ago

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Almost Loved - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 5,9k

Warning: Bulimia, eating-disorder, eat-shaming (?), drug addiction

Y/N lay still in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Her limbs felt heavy, as if her body had stayed up crying even though her eyes hadn’t shed a single tear. Beside her, Serena stirred with a soft groan, arm flopping across the covers.

“Ugh,” Serena mumbled. “Why does sangria feel like betrayal in the morning?”

Y/N gave a faint smile, a ghost of amusement that never made it to her eyes. “You had three glasses.”

“Four.” Serena blinked slowly, sitting up. Her messy bun hung sideways like it had lost the will to live. “Because someone decided to trauma dump at midnight and ruin my detox week.”

Y/N winced, half laughing. “Sorry.”

Serena paused. Looked at her.

“Hey…” she said more softly. “I’m kidding. Kinda. But also… not really.” She leaned against the headboard, pulling her knees up. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

Y/N groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. “No, we don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“Serena.”

“I swear to God, if you ‘I’m fine’ me—”

“I am fine.”

Serena stared at her for a long, long second. Then she got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of too-hot coffee, handing one silently to Y/N. She didn’t speak until she’d sipped enough to burn the roof of her mouth.

“You saw him, Y/N,” she said finally. “Bob. At the grocery store. After a year and a half. And you ran. That doesn’t scream fine to me.”

Y/N exhaled hard through her nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

Serena waited.

“I didn’t run,” Y/N said quietly. “I… retreated. Gracefully.”

“You dropped your basket, almost tripped over a display, and disappeared like a cartoon ghost.”

Y/N laughed, but it broke too fast, cracking in her throat. She looked away, blinking fast at the ceiling.

Serena’s voice softened. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Y/N said immediately. Then, after a second: “Not really. I mean—what is there to say? He was there. He looked… I don’t know. Healthy? Taller? More real than I remembered. I was flirting with someone else, and then boom, he’s just… there. Looking like himself. Like nothing ever happened.”

Serena’s face darkened slightly. “He disappeared on you, Y/N. He ghosted you. No text. No call. Just vanished like some cliché bad boy in a Lifetime movie.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. And I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.”

She took another sip of coffee, hands trembling faintly now. “You know what’s stupid? I laughed last night thinking about how we met. That party. Him running back to ask for my number after we said goodbye. It was so… stupid and adorable. He was nervous. I remember thinking he was going to trip over his own shoes just to get back to me.”

Serena was quiet.

Y/N looked down into her mug. “I used to love him so much. Not the kind of love you talk about at brunch. The kind you… whisper to yourself at 3 a.m. when everything’s quiet. I think I still do. A little.”

Serena reached over and rested a hand on her arm. “Y/N…”

“No, it’s okay.” Y/N shook her head, trying to smile, though her chin wobbled. “It’s fine. Really. It’s been over a year. I just—I thought I was over it. And then I saw him, and it felt like my lungs stopped working. Like no time had passed at all.”

She pressed her thumb hard into the seam of the mug, as if grounding herself there.

Serena’s voice was gentle. “Do you still want him to explain? Or do you just want to move on?”

Y/N looked away for a long time. Her voice came barely above a whisper.

“I think I just want to not feel like this anymore.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick and heavy.

“I hate that he still gets to live in my head rent-free,” Y/N continued. “I hate that I saw him and my first instinct was to run because I knew my legs would give out if I stayed. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me. If I look different. If I still laugh the same.”

She stared at the wall like she was trying to burn through it. “I wish he’d just stayed gone. Because now I know what he looks like happy. And I wasn’t there.”

Serena didn’t have any words. She just moved closer and wrapped her arms around her best friend, letting Y/N bury her face into her shoulder, finally letting a tear fall that she didn’t try to wipe away.

It rolled down quietly and disappeared into the soft cotton of Serena’s t-shirt.

"Come have some breakfast, that body ain't going to keep iself looking good with no food." Serena pulled her out of the bed taking her to the kitchen.

“Okay, but you do remember you have a date tonight, right?”

Serena’s voice came out halfway between a warning and a challenge as she stood at the kitchen counter, buttering toast like it was an Olympic sport. Y/N, still in her oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, sat at the table nursing her second cup of coffee like it owed her emotional stability.

Y/N blinked. “Date?”

Serena turned around slowly, dramatically, her face unreadable. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the thing,” Serena said, pointing the butter knife like a wand. “The thing where you completely forget you agreed to a dinner with Toby and now you’re pretending like it wasn’t real.”

Y/N groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “God. I forgot. I mean—I didn’t forget forget. I just… emotionally forgot.”

“Emotionally forgot,” Serena repeated. “That’s new. I’ll add it to the glossary of avoidance tactics.”

Y/N shot her a look. “He’s too perfect, Serena.”

“That’s literally the point, babe.”

“No, but like… perfect perfect. He has a 401K. And indoor plants that aren’t dead. And he folds his laundry.”

Serena sat down across from her, raising a brow. “Are you about to spiral because a man uses fabric softener?”

Y/N slumped dramatically, laying her head on the table. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready to be someone's grown-up girlfriend. I’m still emotionally on the floor of a party in 2022, eating Cheetos and telling people Bob had ‘potential.’”

Serena snorted. “Okay, that was actually 2024, but go off.”

Y/N groaned louder into the table.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Serena said, reaching to gently tap her arm. “Toby is kind. He’s funny. He’s not running some underground science project in a secret lab. And he’s very into you. He told me he already picked the wine he’s going to order tonight.”

Y/N peeked up, forehead creased. “He picked wine? Is he… okay?”

Serena laughed. “I told you, he’s a tech guy. Everything is pre-programmed.”

Y/N sighed and sat back up, hugging the coffee mug again. “It’s just… not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“That I’m going on this date with a guy who’s doing everything right, and I’m still stuck thinking about the guy who did everything wrong.”

The air shifted. Serena’s smirk faded into something softer, more protective.

“I keep comparing them,” Y/N admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just Toby, but like… every guy I meet. No one makes me feel like Bob did. Like the first time I saw him across that bar. Like that stupid run back to get my number.”

She laughed bitterly. “You remember that? He looked like a lost Golden Retriever in a denim jacket.”

“He was a lost Golden Retriever,” Serena said, fondness and exasperation in equal parts. “But yeah, I remember. He ran into a chair and still managed to flirt.”

Y/N shook her head, tears stinging but not falling. “And now I’m supposed to just… meet someone new. Pretend I’m fine. Put on makeup and smile and act like I didn’t see the ghost of my ex-lover next to the ravioli display at the grocery store.”

Serena gave her the gentlest eye-roll known to mankind. “You make everything sound like a French tragedy. Y/N, you’re not cheating on Bob by going on a date. You’re trying to move on. And please, for the love of God, let this man kiss you if it goes well.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Serena took a bite of toast. “Toby has been thirsting for you since the charity mixer. You think he asked me for your number because he needed help debugging code?”

Y/N grimaced. “I don’t know, Serena. It just feels weird. I haven’t done… that… with anyone since Bob.”

Serena softened again. “I know, babe. And I’m not saying jump into bed with someone to prove something. I just don’t want you to stay frozen in place. You deserve to feel something again. Even if it’s awkward flirting and mediocre tiramisu.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is gonna suck.”

“It won’t,” Serena said. “He picked a really nice place. There’s a candle chandelier. The pasta portions are disrespectfully small. It’s very datey.”

“Great,” Y/N mumbled. “Tiny carbs and forced chemistry.”

Serena leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. “Fake it till you make it. Or at least until dessert.”

Y/N let out a weak laugh, staring into her coffee cup as if it held answers.

“Okay but, real talk,” Serena said, swirling the last of her orange juice. “I never got it.”

Y/N raised a brow, still slumped over her coffee like it was her life support. “Got what?”

“You. Him.” Serena gestured vaguely, as if the name “Bob” was some cursed entity she didn’t dare say too loud. “I mean, yeah, he was sweet. Kind of like an emotionally constipated lumberjack with a tragic backstory. But I never understood how you got so hooked.”

Y/N blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Serena said slowly, picking at the crust of her toast like she was trying to avoid a landmine, “You’re you. You’re like… color and noise and sparkles. And he was like if a cardigan came to life and forgot how to smile.”

Y/N burst out laughing, snorting into her coffee. “Oh my God, Serena.”

“I’m serious!” Serena grinned, leaning forward. “He was always hovering like he was scared to touch anything. All broody and apologetic, like he broke a vase just by existing.”

Y/N tilted her head back, laughing hard now. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m not!” Serena insisted, trying not to laugh herself. “He was sweet. Like, sweet-sweet. But you—Y/N, you fell hard. I just never knew why.”

Y/N sighed, her smile fading into something softer, almost guilty. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug like it might keep her grounded. “Because he didn’t treat me like I was made of barbed wire.”

Serena blinked, taken off guard.

“Everyone before him either wanted to fix me,” Y/N continued, voice quieter now, “or they wanted to… own the mess. Wear it like a badge. Like, ‘Look at me, dating the hot disaster.’ But Bob…” She trailed off, smile turning wistful. “Bob saw me crying in a parking lot the second time we met and just… sat with me. Didn’t ask me what was wrong. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

Serena didn’t say anything, letting her speak.

“He treated me like real good,” Y/N whispered. “Like he couldn’t believe I was even looking at him. And maybe that made it easier to believe I was good.”

The silence that followed was soft, a rare peace between the laughter and sarcasm that usually filled their mornings.

Then Serena tilted her head, brow raised. “Okay… but also. Be honest. Was it just the sex?”

Y/N choked on her coffee so hard she slapped her chest like it owed her an apology. “SERENA!”

“I knew it,” Serena declared, triumphant. “I knew there was a ‘he ruins me emotionally but also rearranges my organs’ layer to this!”

“Oh my God, shut up—”

“No, you shut up,” Serena laughed, pointing at her. “I lived with you during that era. I heard the playlists. I heard the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head on Thursdays.”

Y/N covered her face in horror. “Please let me die.”

“No, no. I want you to live in the truth,” Serena said dramatically. “Because if you’re gonna be emotionally haunted by a man, he better at least have made your spine see stars.”

Y/N groaned. “Okay, yes, he was—he was great. Incredible. Like… criminally intuitive. It was like he had some kind of sixth sense for what would make me melt. I don’t know if it was a power or just talent, but—”

“—this is a man who barely talked for 3 hours when we all went to brunch to meet him and you’re telling me he used powers to give you the holy spirit in bed,” Serena deadpanned.

Y/N howled. “You’re the worst person alive.”

“I’m sorry, but I needed to know what I was fighting against here,” Serena said. “If I’m gonna help you emotionally detach, I have to understand what kind of… voodoo wand he was packing.”

“STOP!” Y/N shouted, beet red. “I can’t talk about this anymore or I’m going to text him.”

Serena raised both hands. “No texting the ex-superboyfriend. That way lies chaos.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N muttered, cheeks still burning, “Toby’s gonna have to perform miracles to get me to forget that.”

Serena leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Then let’s pray Toby brings holy water and a decent jawline to dinner.”

Y/N buried her head in her arms again. “I hate you.”

“You love me. I make your trauma digestible.”

Y/N had tried. She really had.

She'd showered twice that afternoon, changed outfits four times, and let Serena give her a pep talk while doing her makeup. Serena had picked out the dress — a dark green slip that hugged her waist and left her shoulders bare — and had styled her hair while they both tried not to mention the ghost in the room. Or rather, the ghost in the Watchtower.

“You’re hot,” Serena had reminded her, squeezing her shoulders in the mirror. “You’re funny. You’re too good to be crying about some emotionally-unstable superhuman who ghosted you.”

And Y/N had nodded. Smiled. Said she was fine.

Now, seated across from Toby in the golden glow of a candlelit restaurant, she was doing her best to act fine.

The place was upscale — softly lit chandeliers, jazz murmuring from overhead speakers, white linen napkins and wine glasses that caught the light like crystal. It was all very… composed. Expensive. Controlled.

Toby looked the part too. Crisp white shirt, blazer, a silver watch that glinted every time he raised his wine glass. He was charming in the kind of way that came from practice — not sleazy, just… polished. Pre-approved. Like someone who had a laminated checklist of first-date behaviors and was determined to hit them all.

He'd picked a bold red wine, one of the best on the menu, and ordered it without blinking at the price. She tried to laugh at his jokes. She tried to smile when he told stories about his job in software development, about conferences and deadlines and venture capitalists she couldn’t quite bring herself to care about. But her laugh came a half-second late. Her smile felt pasted on. Her body sat rigid, her eyes flickering to the shadows between flickering candles as if expecting someone else to appear there.

And underneath it all, she was starving.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Not really. Just a piece of toast in the morning and coffee. She didn’t even realize how empty she felt until the food came — hand-rolled pasta in a rich cream sauce, soft warm bread, olives swimming in oil and herbs. Her stomach had practically sung.

She tried to eat slowly at first, like the women at the surrounding tables — careful bites, delicate gestures — but after the second glass of wine and a little more comfort, she let go just enough to enjoy herself. She dipped bread in the sauce, let the flavors melt in her mouth, even licked a little off her fork, trying to soothe something that wasn’t just physical hunger.

Toby was in the middle of explaining his favorite vacation spot in Capri when he paused, watching her with an amused smile.

“You’re really going at it, huh?” he said, laughing.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “It’s just cute. You’re not exactly shy with your food.”

Her fork hovered in the air.

“I mean, I like a girl who eats,” he added quickly, clearly trying to make it a compliment. “But, you know, moderation is sexy too. Leave a little mystery.”

Y/N froze.

Her heart didn’t shatter — not like glass. It contracted. Twisted in on itself.

She looked down at her plate — half-finished, sauce smeared. She suddenly saw her bite marks in the bread. The little drop of wine on her napkin. Her shoulders tensed.

“Oh,” she said quietly, placing her fork down.

Toby didn’t notice her change. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“I mean, if we’re being honest,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re already gorgeous. But if you just trimmed a little, like, this much—” He held his fingers an inch apart. “You’d be lethal, you know what I mean?”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. The wine in her glass was suddenly sour.

He kept talking, unaware, laughing again at his own brilliance. Something about keto. Or intermittent fasting. Something someone on TikTok told him once. His words blurred into background noise, like a TV left on in another room.

She nodded slowly, though she wasn’t listening anymore. She wasn’t even in the restaurant.

She was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

She was in a small, quiet diner at 2 a.m., with Bob across from her in a threadbare hoodie, his hair a mess. They’d ordered pancakes and eggs because it was the only place still open after their fourth date — after she told him about the worst parts of her past. And Bob, instead of recoiling or turning awkward, had reached across the table with a kind of cautious reverence and said, “You’ve survived so much.”

And then he asked if he could steal a fry.

She remembered the way his eyes had lit up when she laughed, like he’d just heard the sound for the first time.

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said suddenly, her voice distant. “I think I need to go home.”

Toby blinked, mid-sentence. “Wait—what? We haven’t even gotten dessert—”

“I know, I just…” She stood, already pulling her bag over her shoulder, trying not to cry. “Thank you. For dinner.”

He said something as she walked away — maybe asked if he said something wrong, maybe tried to smooth it over with another compliment. She didn’t hear it. She was already outside, into the humid night air, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like thunderclaps in her ears.

She didn’t cry right away. Not until she got home. Not until she stepped out of her dress in the silence of her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror, cheeks flushed from wine and humiliation.

Moderation is sexy too. Trim a little. Leave a little mystery.

She let out a breath like it hurt. Her reflection blurred.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

Tampa, Florida - Four dates in

The diner was almost empty, save for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter and the crackling of an old jukebox playing something faint and bluesy. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled of syrup and burnt coffee. Outside, the world was sleeping. But inside, it was just the two of them — Y/N and Bob — tucked into a red leather booth with a plate of pancakes between them and a quiet that felt strangely sacred.

Y/N was curled slightly forward, stirring her coffee with a shaky spoon, her eyes flickering between the sugar packets and Bob’s steady gaze. He had noticed her hesitation when the food arrived — how she’d only pushed a few eggs around her plate, how she’d looked at the pancakes like they were made of glass.

“You okay?” he had asked, softly, not pushing. Just noticing.

She took a breath. It rattled slightly in her chest. Her lips trembled with the beginning of words she didn’t know if she could say out loud.

“You know I used to like… not eat,” she murmured finally, not looking at him. “I mean—I did. But only sometimes. And when I did, I’d… make myself sick after.”

Bob’s smile faded. His posture shifted, leaning in just slightly, his brows furrowing with quiet concern. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t flinch.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trembling around the spoon.

“It started when I was seventeen. My mom had this way of always commenting on what I ate. Or didn’t eat. It wasn’t even mean, just... little things, you know? Like, ‘Are you really going to finish that?’ or ‘That dress looked better before dinner.’ I didn’t even realize how much it got into my head.”

She laughed once — dry and humorless.

“By the time I was in college, I had it down to a routine. I could pretend I was fine in public. Smile, drink a smoothie, skip meals, throw up in clean bathrooms with scented candles, so there's no suspicion. You’d be amazed at how good you can get at pretending.”

Bob stayed silent, his eyes gentle but focused entirely on her. He wasn’t afraid of her truth. He wasn’t shrinking away.

“I haven’t told many people,” she said, her voice lower now. “I’ve been trying to get better. For a couple years now. But eating around people still makes me anxious. I overthink every bite. I wonder if they’re watching. Judging. Even if they’re not.”

She looked up at him then, as if bracing herself for the change. For the shift in his eyes. For the sudden distance.

But Bob didn’t move. Not away from her.

Instead, he picked up his fork and cut a piece of pancake from the middle of the plate, loaded it with syrup, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth in one go. A huge bite.

Y/N blinked.

Bob chewed exaggeratedly, bulging his cheeks out like a chipmunk before swallowing and letting out a dramatic sigh. “God, that’s good,” he groaned, smacking his lips. “I mean, life-changing. Like... Michelin star stuff.”

Y/N stared at him, confused — then let out a startled laugh. He grinned, syrup at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, casually reaching for another bite, “you could eat this entire plate by yourself and I would still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I’d help you eat it. Happily.”

Her laugh wavered, turning into something wetter. Something deeper. Her eyes stung.

“You don’t have to say that,” she whispered, trying to keep her composure.

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” Bob said, his voice softening again. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looked down at her hands — still gripping the coffee cup — then gently placed his own over them.

“I know I’m not perfect. I’ve got... my own monsters. Big ones. But if you ever feel like they’re too loud,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “you can tell me. Even if you don’t want me to fix it. Even if you just need someone to listen.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

“And if you ever feel like eating three stacks of pancakes in front of me,” he added, the teasing lilt returning to his voice, “I promise you — I will never, ever judge you. Even if you unhinge your jaw like a snake. You’ll still be the prettiest person in the room.”

She giggled, half through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “I’m serious. You could gain thirty pounds and I’d still carry you everywhere.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” Bob insisted, puffing his chest. “I’m like super strong, remember? I could lift you if you were made of cement and regret. You think a little ice cream weight’s gonna scare me?”

Y/N finally let out a real laugh, leaning back against the booth. Her face still damp, her eyes still red — but something had lightened in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time: safe. Seen.

Weird really. How a battle has been inside of her for years and a boy this chaotic had already made her feel so good about it.

It had to be real love.

Bob's pov

Bob sat on the end of his bed, elbows braced on his thighs, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were raw again. The skin peeled at the edges where he’d been picking at them without realizing. Nervous habit. The kind Y/N used to catch and gently stop.

He felt her everywhere, even now. Like she was stitched into the seams of his life.

Another knock.

Yelena didn’t wait for a response—never did. She slipped inside like a breeze of sarcasm and intuition.

“I brought tea,” she said, holding up a steaming mug. “Because you look like the tragic ghost of a dead poet.”

Bob blinked at her. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” She shoved the mug into his hands and sat across from him. “Talk.”

He hesitated. She didn’t blink.

“Who is she?” she asked, softer now. “The one Walker said has you all… scrambled.”

Bob exhaled, deep and cracked, like the breath had been trapped under a mountain.

“Y/N,” he said. “Her name’s Y/N.”

He paused. The name tasted like sunlight and ash.

“We met at a club in Florida. One of those places where everything smells like too much perfume and spilled rum. She was with her friends—girls’ night. I was tagging along with some guys I barely knew. I was already spiraling then. Small stuff, pills mostly. Not that anyone could tell.”

He swallowed hard.

“She was radiant,” he continued. “Black dress, laughing at something her friend said at the bar. I kept staring like an idiot. She caught me, smiled, and waved. That wave... It felt like a lifeline.”

Yelena tilted her head, listening.

“I eventually walked up to her, nervous as hell. I wasn’t good at talking to people then. Especially not women like her. But she didn’t make me feel like a creep or a loser. She smiled like she saw something in me that was good. And that terrified me.”

His voice dropped, quiet and hoarse.

“She gave me her number. We texted the next day. And I remember being more excited about her reply than I’d been about anything in years.”

Bob sat back, eyes clouded, as memories poured like a slow leak from his chest.

“She was… warm,” he said. “The kind of person who’d talk to the barista like they were an old friend. Who would bake banana bread on random Tuesdays and always burned the edges but insisted it was better that way.”

Yelena smirked faintly.

“She talked a lot, especially in the mornings. I liked that. She had this way of waking up and instantly being in full story mode—telling me her dreams, or what she wanted to do that weekend, or what new podcast she was obsessed with. It was chaotic, but it was… home.”

He looked away. Pain flickered in his jaw.

“And I was high for most of it.”

Yelena’s smile faded.

“She never knew,” Bob said. “I kept it together just enough. Told her I was anxious. That I had insomnia. I was good at hiding the tremors and the dips in energy. I always wore long sleeves. Told her I didn’t like the cold.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I was a walking lie.”

“But did you love her?” Yelena asked.

Bob’s eyes snapped to hers.

“I still love her,” he said, voice cracking. “That’s the worst part.”

He stood up, pacing now, restless with the memory.

“She used to make pancakes on Saturdays. Bad pancakes. Burnt, lumpy ones. And I ate every bite because she looked so proud. We’d spend entire Sundays just lying in bed, her feet always cold, shoved between my thighs while she played music and asked me about my favorite songs.”

His chest heaved, eyes rimmed red.

“She asked me once if I was happy. Just out of the blue. She was brushing her teeth. I said yes. But I wasn’t. Because every day I spent with her made the guilt worse. She thought she had this decent guy. And I was using behind her back.”

He paused.

“Once, she brought me soup when I was dope sick. I told her I had the flu. She held my hand while I threw up and kept saying I was the strongest person she knew. And all I could think was, if she knew the truth, she’d leave me right now.”

Yelena said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

“I kept trying to get clean,” he added. “Not for me—for her. But the more I tried, the more I hated myself when I failed. The last few months, I got mixed up with a really bad crowd. Dealers. Violence. She had no idea. She thought I was working longer hours.”

He clenched his fists.

“And then one night, I overdosed.”

The room fell still.

“I didn’t tell her. She didn’t even know I was in the hospital. I just… blocked her. Told her I didn’t want her anymore. And then I disappeared.”

Yelena exhaled slowly. “And now she’s back in your life.”

“Not really,” he said, eyes hollow. “I saw her at the store. She saw me, and she ran. And I can’t even blame her.”

Yelena stood and walked over, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard.

“You think she wouldn’t have stayed if she knew?”

“I know she would’ve tried,” Bob whispered. “But I would’ve dragged her down with me. And I couldn’t do that. Even if it meant losing the only good thing I ever had.”

A long silence passed.

“Do you want her back?” she asked.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just stared out the window at the stars.

“I want to be the man she thought I was,” he said. “That’s all.”

Yelena stood by the window now, arms crossed, watching the dark skyline of the city through the reinforced Watchtower glass. The silence between them had thickened like fog, dense with things unsaid.

“You ever think this isn’t just a coincidence?” she asked quietly.

Bob didn’t move from where he sat. “What?”

“Seeing her again. After all this time. Not in Florida. Not in a memory. But here. New city. New life. You — sober. Her — still breathing the same air as you.”

He flinched.

Yelena turned to face him, voice more insistent now. “You don’t think that maybe… maybe the universe is handing you one of those cheesy second chances people pray for?”

Bob scoffed, bitter and tired. “She ran when she saw me, Yelena.”

“People run when they’re scared.”

“She’s scared of me.”

Yelena moved closer, unfazed by the rawness in his voice. “Or scared of what you meant to her. People don’t run unless there’s something still burning in their chest.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes glassy.

“You don’t get it,” he said, each word grinding out of him. “She didn’t leave me. I left her. She believed I was good. Kind. Worth something. And I ripped that illusion from her the moment I disappeared without explanation. She doesn’t owe me a single second of her time. And she definitely doesn’t owe me forgiveness.”

Yelena sighed, sitting beside him.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But you owe yourself the chance to try.”

He was quiet again. Still. His whole body felt like it was made of stone.

“I used to fantasize about running into her one day,” he murmured. “In the early months of rehab. When the cravings hit so hard I wanted to claw my skin off. When I thought about using again just so I could feel human for five minutes.”

His hands shook slightly in his lap. He didn’t hide it.

“I’d imagine her seeing me all clean, apologizing, holding her hand, telling her everything. And she’d look at me the way she used to. Like I was worth it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, voice cracking.

“But that’s not how it happened.”

Yelena watched him quietly.

“I saw her face when she recognized me. It wasn’t joy. It was pain. Like seeing a ghost she’d buried and hoped never to see again.”

“Maybe she was just shocked,” Yelena said gently. “She probably thought you were dead.”

Bob flinched again.

“Maybe I was,” he whispered. “And maybe the version of me she loved still is.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, fingers pulling at the fabric of his jeans.

“I’m not hiding anymore. I’m sober. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But that doesn’t erase what I did. She spent months — years — not knowing why I left. Thinking it was her. Or worse, thinking she wasn’t enough. And the truth is, she was too much — too good, too bright, too patient.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes cast downward.

“I don’t deserve her. Not after the hell I put her through. Not when I let her love a lie.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she said, “But you’re not lying anymore.”

Bob looked up at her, expression hollow.

“Doesn’t matter. Truth or not… some things don’t get to be fixed.”

He stood, walking slowly to the window where she had stood before. He leaned a hand against the cool glass, staring at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Y/N was breathing. Existing. Living a life that no longer had room for him.

“I saw her with Walker,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And maybe that’s good. Maybe she’ll get the life she wanted, she looks like she moved on just fine.”

Yelena stood behind him, her voice softer now. “Is that what you really want? Walker had a wholw family drama going on...I wouldn't say that's exactly a great option.”

Bob didn’t turn around.

“I want her to be okay,” he said. “Even if it kills me.”

A beat of silence passed. And then —

“But you miss her.”

He nodded. “Every damn day.”

The ache inside him pulsed like a bruise that never faded. He thought of her laugh, her late-night texts, the warmth of her skin under his fingers, the stupid inside jokes, the scent of her coconut shampoo, the way she danced barefoot in his apartment while brushing her teeth. He remembered it all in excruciating detail.

And he remembered the silence she was met with when he vanished.

He thought of all the versions of himself he tried to be — the lover, the liar, the addict, the coward — and how none of them were enough to hold onto her.

“I had the whole world in my hands,” Bob said, his voice breaking. “And I dropped it.”

Yelena stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Then maybe it’s time to pick something up again,” she whispered. “Even if it’s just the truth.”

But Bob said nothing.

Because in his heart — beneath the layers of sobriety, regret, and bone-deep yearning — he still believed that redemption was something meant for someone else.

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