Inside, the restaurant is a sanctuary. Soft lighting, warm smiles from the staff, and the gentle hum of conversation replace the chaos I left behind.
The bartender chats with me about his dreams of moving to New Zealand with his girlfriend, subtly trying to make me feel less awkward about dining alone on what should be a romantic, celebratory evening.
The food is exquisite, each plate an edible masterpiece. For a brief moment, I feel a sense of peace.
Then Timmy appears.
He slides onto the stool beside me, grinning at the bartender as if nothing’s amiss—as if joining your fiancée for your anniversary dinner when she’s almost done eating is perfectly normal.
“Can I have a beer?” he asks me sweetly.
“Sure,” I say, exhausted but relieved that he seems calm—for now.
I push the last dish toward him, explaining what it is. He takes a bite.
“This is really good,” he says, his tone almost normal.
“Every other dish was good, too,” I reply. “If you’d come in earlier, you would’ve known that.”
He frowns, the defensiveness creeping back. “But you hurt my feelings. Bringing that stuff up wasn’t very nice.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I explain. “I was just sharing how I felt so we could talk about it. We need to be able to talk about things. Please…” I grab his hand. “You have to believe that when I bring up constructive things, it’s not with the intention of fighting or blaming. It’s so we can work through them, communicate, and understand each other better. It’s been a year, and we clearly still need to work on that.”
He considers my words, his expression softening. “You’re right,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “I love you somuch, Marg. Let’s try to fix the rest of the evening and celebrate. Thank you for the beer and food. I’m so lucky to have you. I love you so, so much, my penguin.”
My heart aches with relief, but I know this is likely temporary. I kiss him back. “I love you, too.”
The waiter brings out dessert, a decadent dish adorned with “Happy Anniversary” in chocolate script. For a moment, I allow myself to savor it—the sweetness, the artistry, the acknowledgment of my milestone on the island.
But the thought lingers:Will it always be like this? Will every outing be a battlefield before it can be a celebration? Will he always find a way to ruin every milestone? Will I ever be able to bring anything up without there being consequences?
I glance at Timmy, who’s chatting with the bartender about the beer. He’s charming, charismatic—everything he was when I first met him. But the cracks in the facade are undeniable.
The emotional toll of constantly tiptoeing around his moods, of being unable to share even my mildest thoughts without fear of retaliation, feels like too much.
As I finish my dessert, the bittersweetness isn’t just on the plate—it’s in the realization that I’m holding onto hope for a version of him that doesn’t exist.
CHAPTER 103
WHEN YOU’RE DROWNING BUT YOU’RE STILL KIND
MARGAUX
The apartment is quiet—the kind of silence that feels heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest.
Timmy is out—where, I don’t know—and for once, I’m grateful for the solitude. I sit on the bed, my laptop open, staring at the blank document. The cursor blinks at me, waiting.
I need to say this. I need him to hear it. But talking to Timmy face-to-face never works. He deflects, twists my words, or worse—turns my concerns into ammunition for the next fight.
An email is different.
He can’t interrupt, can’t storm out or raise his voice. He has to read it, sit with it. Maybe, just maybe, it will sink in.
I take a deep breath and start typing.
Timmy,
You are an incredible person.