My Pandora's Sketchbook of Us

I couldn't wait to see the look on Declan's face when he came home and saw the transformed apartment.

When he finally returned, he froze at the doorway, his brow instantly knitting together.

"You're thirty years old, Cassia. Can you stop acting like you're twenty? It's pathetic."

Without even stepping inside, he took down the painting I had hung on the wall and tossed it into the storage room.

A porcelain figurine I had carefully chosen fell from a cabinet and shattered on the floor. I knelt down, picking up the pieces and trying to fit them back together. The jagged cracks looked like poorly stitched scars.

I stroked its little head, consoling the broken thing as if it were alive, my voice a broken whisper. "Shhh, you know how he is... Don't cry..."

I had to console myself yet again.

In the days that followed, I tried every trick I could think of to "run into" him.

When it rained, I showed up with an umbrella at the docks he controlled. He just drove off with Chiara in his luxury car, not even cracking a window as the tires sprayed filthy water all over me.

When I heard he was going to the shooting range, I went early, even taking a last-minute crash course from an instructor to surprise him.

The moment he saw me, he turned around without a word and went to a different private range, leaving me there, utterly humiliated.

Still, I brushed it off. I would keep trying. But Declan never gave me the time of day.

On the sixth day, he finally came home. I had spent the morning in the kitchen preparing a feast, and my hands were raw and blistered.

He rubbed his temples, then scraped every last dish straight into the trash. "Cassia, can you stop with this self-indulgent melodrama? It's exhausting."

I hadn't meant to cry, but the weariness in his voice cut me deep. His dark eyes stared at me with disdain, as if all my efforts were worthless.

Tears welled and spilled, splashing onto the cold floor.

Declan fell silent, then let out a sharp laugh. "What's the act for? After all these years, aren't you used to it by now?"

The same words, when spoken by yourself, are a form of bitter humor. When spoken by someone else, they strip you of all your dignity.

After he left, I sat there, staring at the food in the trash, at this empty house filled with nothing but loneliness.

I thought, Do I really not understand why my thirty-year-old self wanted to end this? Or have I just been refusing to admit it?

That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the sketchbook and the unsigned dissolution petition.

My best friend, Maeve Walsh, had once called and asked me, "What's so special about Declan O'Sullivan? What made you love him for fifteen whole years?"

I could never quite explain it.

When we first met, I could have listed a hundred things I admired about him, but the more I loved him, the less I could say why.

Isn't that how first love works? No logic, no reason. Just pouring everything you are into one person, diving in headfirst and never looking back, even if you shatter into a million pieces on impact.

I snapped the sketchbook shut.

Maybe my thirty-year-old self was too proud, too overwhelmed, so she left the choice to the me who only had twenty years of memories, letting her make the choice for both of us.

Even if it was the very last chance.

I sent Declan a message: "Declan, I was wrong today. I'm sorry. Will you come home tomorrow? Please."