Part 3The Sixth Year

Christmas was just around the corner, and a damp, bone-aching cold had settled over Southport. The forecast had called for snow that night. As I stepped out of the building, I saw a pristine blanket of white covering everything.

I managed a weak, ironic smile. For once, the weatherman got it right.

I dragged my suitcase through the fresh snow, the wheels struggling against the powder. Luckily, the cab I’d called arrived quickly. The driver helped me lift my suitcase into the trunk.

"Whoa, that's a heavy one, miss!" he said with a friendly grunt. "Movin' out in the middle of the night? Not coming back, huh?"

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I took one last look at the familiar window, now just a distant, glowing square in the swirling snow.

"No," I whispered. "Never again."

I found a cheap hotel near my office and spent the rest of the night scrolling through apartment listings on my phone. Rent in Southport was steep; a decent one-bedroom in a safe neighborhood would run me a few thousand a month. I was trying to calculate my savings when I drifted off, my phone still clutched in my hand.

In my dreams, I saw our past unfold, but this time, I was watching from above.

I saw myself at the freshman orientation welcome event, standing on stage singing. And I saw Liam in the audience, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes filled with a captivating mix of admiration and awe.

When the song ended, he came on stage with a bouquet of flowers. "That was incredible," he’d said, his voice confident, with a slight, charming edge of arrogance. "I'm Liam Goodwin, from the finance department. We should get to know each other."

He said it like a statement, not a question, as if he was certain I’d be as captivated as he was.

I looked at the eighteen-year-old me in my dream, her cheeks flushed, and whispered through my own tears, "Willow, don't tell him your name."

But a man with a face that perfect and a spirit that untamed is a lethal combination for an eighteen-year-old girl. Of course I took the flowers. And of course I told him my name.

After that, he was everywhere. He chased away every other guy who showed even a flicker of interest in me.

When I complained, he’d cup the back of my neck, his voice a low growl. "You looking for trouble, Evans? You think you can date someone without my permission?"

My heart would flutter. I thought he was jealous. Looking back, I see it for what it was: the simple, brutish possessiveness of a man laying claim to a prize.

For four years of college, he was the only man I was close to. He took me everywhere, introduced me to his oldest friends, and beamed with pride when they called me the "Mrs." I would blush and say nothing.

This ambiguous dance continued until the year we graduated. Liam’s mother, who had been sick for years, finally lost her battle. On the night of the funeral, he showed up at my tiny apartment, reeking of whiskey. His tears were cold against my neck as he held me, his trembling lips finding mine.

It was our first real kiss.

My mind went blank. When I finally came to my senses, I tried to push him away, but he murmured against my ear, his voice thick with grief, "Willow, please... don't say no. You're all I have left."

And just like that, I lost the will to fight.

It was a night of tangled limbs and whispered grief.

When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I swallowed my disappointment and got ready for work, just like any other day. But then he came back, bursting through the door, out of breath from running up the stairs. In his hand, he held a small box.

His eyes, when he looked at me, seemed to hold all the stars in the universe.

He smiled, a real, brilliant smile, and held out his hand.

"Willow Evans," he said. "Be with me."