The Regret of Love Rises with the Wind

As I turned back to face him, Soren's eyes widened with surprise. The moment our gazes met, he instinctively released Ziva's hand, the gesture as natural as if he had been caught doing something wrong. His voice, usually calm and measured, spilled over with explanations as if the words had been ready, waiting for this very moment.

"Ziva had too much to drink tonight," he began, his tone almost pleading. "She's your sister and I was worried about her walking alone on the streets, so I brought her home. She's a sensible girl and she insisted on leaving first because she was afraid you'd misunderstand."

I watched him, his face lit by the soft glow of the moon and felt an overwhelming sense of detachment. This man, the one standing so earnestly before me, no longer felt like the Soren I had known. It was as though the mask he had always worn had finally slipped, revealing a version of him I had never seen. He was defending Ziva, the one person who had made my life hell, as if she were some delicate, misunderstood creature. And he had so much to say—so many excuses—when it came to her.

Each word he spoke, so carefully chosen to protect Ziva, twisted the knife deeper into my chest. "I grew up with you," I whispered, more to myself than to him, my voice barely above a breath. "I'm the one who stood by your side for ten years. And yet, here I am, just a substitute."

His eyes flickered, a faint shadow of guilt crossing his face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I forced myself to stay composed, swallowing the lump of pain in my throat. "She's not my sister," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "She's the illegitimate daughter of a mistress. That's all."

The air between us grew thick with tension. I saw the change in Soren immediately—his posture stiffened, his expression hardening. His voice rose, sharp with anger. "Wendy! How could you say something so vicious about Ziva? Apologize to her right now."

I flinched, feeling the sting of his words like a slap to the face. His anger wasn't just about defending Ziva—it was aimed directly at me, at who I was, at what I had become in his eyes. The man who once claimed to love me now looked at me as though I were a stranger, someone beneath him.

"No wonder your parents abandoned you," he continued, his voice cutting deeper with each word. "No wonder no one ever liked you. That sharp tongue of yours really disgusts me. You deserve to be unloved!"

The moment the words left his mouth, I felt my heart shatter. The world around me blurred as I stared at him, tears burning in my eyes. His face, illuminated by the gentle moonlight, was harsh and unforgiving, as if every ounce of tenderness he had ever shown me was reserved for someone else now.

And then, in that quiet space between us, I realized something. Soren had always been good at protecting, at shielding those he cared about. When we were kids, he was my protector too.

I flashed back to a smaller version of him, a boy with wide, caring eyes, standing in front of me during one of my family's many explosive fights. My father, after cheating on my mother, had forced her out of the house so he could marry his mistress. In the chaos that followed, I was left alone, the unwanted child in a broken home. But Soren had been there. He had shielded me, wrapping his arms around me while I sobbed.

“Wendy,” he had whispered, his young voice steady and full of promise, "you're the best girl in the world. Even if no one else wants you, I'll always love you, forever and ever."

I had held on to those words, kept them close to my heart as we grew older. I worked tirelessly to free myself from my toxic family, dreaming of the day Soren and I would start our own. But as the years went by, the boy who had made those promises faded. Whenever I brought up our future, he would brush me off, his voice cool and distant. "Those were just childish words," he would say, as if they had meant nothing.

And now, with Ziva standing between us, he didn't even bother with the pretense of kindness. He had wounded me in the most personal way, with words that tore open old scars, the ones I had spent years trying to heal.

I turned my head, not wanting him to see how much it hurt. My vision blurred with unshed tears, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching me break. Soren's eyes softened for a moment, as if he sensed that he had gone too far. I saw him glance down at my feet—bare, bloodied and bruised from the painful walk.

He sighed, his anger cooling just slightly. "I'll just pretend you're drunk and rambling tonight," he muttered. "After this—"

"There won't be a next time," I interrupted, my voice cold and final.

"What?" Soren's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, Ziva burst into tears and ran from the house, her sobs echoing through the silent night.

Without hesitation, Soren rushed after her, his concern for her overwhelming any curiosity about what I had just said. As he ran, I noticed something fall from his pocket—a delicate pearl necklace that glittered faintly in the moonlight.

I bent down and picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The smooth surface of the pearls felt cool against my skin and for a moment, I was transported back in time. I remembered when Soren had a small pearl tattooed on his chest, back when we were young and life seemed so simple.

It all made sense now. Every little detail, every hint that I had ignored over the years, clicked into place. The necklace, the tattoo, the way he had always treated Ziva with a special kind of attention. It was her. It had always been her.

These ten years of love—the ones I had cherished and held on to—had been nothing more than an illusion, a fragile dream built on my own wishful thinking.

I stood there for a moment, clutching the necklace, before finally letting it slip through my fingers. As it fell to the ground, I felt a strange sense of clarity wash over me. I wasn't going to fight for this anymore. Soren wasn't worth it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out to see a message from my mother. She had booked me a plane ticket to go abroad, scheduled for two weeks later—the same day as the wedding.

I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. The wedding countdown in the living room, the one that had once filled me with joy and anticipation, was now nothing more than a reminder of my departure.

With a resolute sigh, I turned and walked back inside. I began tearing down the wedding decorations, throwing away the remnants of what was supposed to be our future. Every symbol of our life together, every trace of him, was discarded without a second thought.

If fate had decided this, then I would choose to use these final two weeks to say goodbye to everything I once thought was mine.