It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the kind that carried a hush of promise in the air. The streets lay washed in pale golden light, yet the chill of dawn lingered. I was running late for morning service at St Thomas’ Church, my heart racing in time with the wheels beneath me. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel; perhaps from the cold, perhaps from nerves.
A glance at my watch made me wince. Twenty minutes late! The thought of slipping into church halfway through the service left me unsettled. I was not accustomed to tardiness. But Saturday nights had become my undoing lately, leaving my mornings hazy and sluggish.
“Bernard would never have let this happen,” I muttered under my breath.
His name cut through me like glass. He used to ring me without fail, bright and teasing, making sure I was never late for anything. With Bernard, I had felt adored, treasured. But he had also left me in ruins. My first love, my first heartbreak. I thought I had banished him to memory, yet mornings like this pulled him back into my chest like an ache that refused to fade.
I was so caught in thought that I didn’t notice the car ahead slowing. BANG!
The jolt ripped me out of my reverie. My car had rammed into the vehicle in front.
My stomach dropped. For a moment, I sat frozen, fury and shame coursing through me. Then I pushed open the door and stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the tarmac. My arms folded across my chest; I prepared to unleash the storm that had been brewing since morning.
The other driver’s door opened. Out stepped a man.
He was of medium height, his build broad yet graceful, his maroon suit cut so perfectly it seemed made for him. The rich colour played beautifully against his smooth brown skin. But it was his lips—full and inviting—that caught me off guard. And then his eyes met mine.
My anger faltered.
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said, his voice calm, gentle. “Are you hurt?”
The kindness disarmed me. I had braced myself for arrogance, excuses, even shouting. But his words were soft, genuine.
“I—no, I’m fine,” I stammered. “It’s just… this morning has been rather dreadful.”
He smiled, and it was like the sun had broken through the clouds. “Seems fate chose quite the dramatic way to introduce us.”
Against my better judgement, a small laugh slipped out
We exchanged insurance details, though he brushed the matter aside, insisting the damage was slight. “Nothing that can’t be sorted,” he said. “Let’s not allow a little scrape to ruin our Sundays. Would you care for a coffee? There’s a café just around the corner.”
To my surprise, I agreed.
The café was warm and bustling, the air heavy with the scent of roasted beans and fresh bread. We sat across from one another at a corner table. He introduced himself as Adrian, a solicitor newly returned to the city after several years working abroad.
“And you?” he asked, leaning forward, eyes fixed on me as though my reply was the most important thing in the world.
“My name’s Clara,” I said. “I write. Well, I try to. These days it feels more like endless lists of things I ought to fix about myself than anything worth publishing.”
Adrian chuckled. “If your list included bumping into a stranger, I’d say you’ve ticked it off admirably.”
There was something magnetic about him, something that steadied the chaos within me. Conversation flowed with ease, about books, travels, the small oddities of life. And though I smiled, though I laughed, a shadow tugged at me. Bernard. His name loomed like an unwelcome ghost.
As though sensing it, Adrian said softly, “You look like someone who carries a story.”
I fiddled with my spoon. “Don’t we all?”
“Yes,” he said, holding my gaze. “But yours seems one I’d like to listen to.”
A budding flame
In the weeks that followed, Adrian and I saw more of each other. What began with coffee turned into dinners, long walks, late-night conversations that seemed to unravel the world and stitch it anew.
He was patient, never pressing for more than I could give. When I finally confessed about Bernard—about the heartbreak that had nearly broken me, Adrian didn’t interrupt or pity me. He simply listened, his hand warm upon mine.
“Clara,” he said gently, “I can’t change your past. But I can promise never to treat your heart carelessly.”
For the first time in years, I felt seen, safe.
But love’s path is seldom smooth.
One evening, after weeks of growing closeness, I met Adrian outside his office. He looked distracted, troubled. Before I could ask, he handed me his phone. On the screen was a photograph—him and a woman, arm in arm, smiling intimately.
“She’s my colleague,” he said quickly. “But people are talking. Rumours travel fast in my line of work.”
The sight clawed at me. My chest tightened as old wounds reopened. I pushed the phone back into his hands. “It doesn’t matter. I know how this story ends. I’ve lived it before.”
His face fell. “Clara, it isn’t what you think. Please…….”
But I had already turned away, the ache of Bernard’s betrayal flooding back. I could not endure it again.
For days I avoided him. I ignored his calls, his messages. I told myself it was safer to retreat now than risk another heartbreak. Yet, deep down, the thought of losing Adrian hurt far more than I wanted to admit.
One Sunday morning, weeks later, I walked into St Thomas’ Church alone. My steps felt heavier than they should. As the choir sang, my thoughts drifted helplessly to Adrian, his smile, his patience, the way his presence had steadied me.
When the service ended, I stepped outside. And there he was.
Adrian stood at the gates, holding a small bouquet of lilies—my favourite, though I’d never told him. His eyes searched mine, unflinching.
“Clara,” he said, voice steady but raw, “I’ve been waiting. That photograph was nothing but gossip. She’s engaged to someone else. But I should have explained sooner. I should never have left space for doubt.”
I swallowed hard, torn between fear and longing.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to be just a passing chapter in your life. I want to be the story you tell when you speak of love.”
Tears blurred my vision. For once, the ghosts of the past loosened their hold.
And there, outside the church where it all had begun, I let myself lean into his embrace.
From that day, something changed. The shadows of Bernard no longer haunted me with such sharpness. With Adrian, the future felt less like a risk and more like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
One evening, as we walked hand in hand through the quiet streets, he whispered, “Fate might have crashed us together in the most ungraceful way. But I’m glad it did.”
I smiled, resting my head against his shoulder. “So, I’m I.”
Because sometimes love doesn’t arrive in neat packages. Sometimes it collides into you, rattles you, tests you and still, somehow, leaves you whole.
And with Adrian, I was ready at last to believe in love again.