And for a few minutes, the kitchen felt light in a way it hadn't in so long. Just the three of us, pencils and laughter, smudged eraser bits littering the table, and something soft and stubborn blooming between us—like hope, but funnier and warmer.
At that moment, it didn't matter whose drawing was better or worse. What mattered was Jimmy smiling despite himself, Thomas looking at us like he couldn't quite believe we were all still here, and me realizing, with a quiet, almost shy happiness, that we were building something new—one crooked fox mug and ridiculous stick figure at a time.

**
Few weeks later, our counselor gave us another exercise to do every day.
"Because you started loving each other as kids," she said gently, folding her hands on her lap, "you keep slipping back into those younger versions of yourselves—carrying the same hopes, the same habits, and yes... the same fears. But you're not those people anymore. Life has stretched you, bruised you, changed you in ways neither of you could have predicted. And sometimes, your love didn't quite keep up with that change."
She let that thought settle, her gaze moving softly between us.
"That's why I want to offer you something simple but not easy," she continued. "Every day, I want you to set aside fifteen minutes. Find a place in your home that feels cosy, familiar—a couch, a corner of the garden, even the foot of your bed at night. Sit together, just the two of you. Phones away, no distractions."
She paused, her voice soft but steady.
"Then, take turns. Each of you share one beautiful memory from your past together, something that still makes you smile, something that matters, even if it seems small.  Then, offer each other one small promise for the future. Nothing grand, nothing to fix everything overnight."
Her eyes warmed. "The point isn't perfection. It's presence. Keep it honest. Keep it gentle. Keep it real. Because love doesn't always move in grand gestures; it grows in small, deliberate moments."
She leaned back slightly, a faint smile on her face. "Do this every day. Every night, if you can. Let the practice itself become part of your 온라인카지노게임. Let it remind you: you're not who you were at sixteen, or twenty-five. But you're still here."
So we did. One memory. One promise. Every night. We took turns, trading the past and future in small handfuls, like shells passed between children on a quiet beach.
Thomas went first on the same day,
 "I remember you waiting outside my dorm the day Beth left. You didn't ask anything. You just sat with me on that freezing bench and held my hand. You let me be silent until I could speak."
 Then, softly: "I promise I'll never rush your silence. When things hurt, I'll wait beside you.
The next night, it was my turn.
 "Remember when you made me that playlist during my first awful student job? And every song had a little voice note from you. You said, 'I can't sit beside you at work, but maybe this will help.'"
 I smiled faintly. "I promise I'll keep learning your love language."
Some nights were lighter.
 "Remember when we got caught in the rain walking home from the cinema?" he asked, eyes crinkling at the memory. "You wrapped your coat around both of us, even though it meant your back got soaked. Your teeth were chattering so hard I thought they might fall out."
 He nudged me with his shoulder. "I promise I'll always try to keep you warm, even if it means getting drenched."
Other nights made us laugh mid-sentence, or pause with something tender caught between us.
"You cried watching that pet adoption ad once," I teased, leaning back so I could see his face better. "and then blamed it on dust, remember?"
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes, the tips of his ears going pink. "God, don't remind me. It was the music, they made it sound like the dogs were writing farewell letters."
"And you got so defensive about it!" I couldn't help laughing softly. "You insisted the living room just had 'too much dust.'"
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. There was something boyish and almost shy in the way he ducked his gaze.
"I promise," I said, my voice turning gentler, "I'll always notice that soft heart of yours. Even behind all the quiet you wrap around it."
There were memories that made us laugh again, like the time he tried to fix my grandmother's old lamp and nearly set the curtain on fire.
 "I promise I'll always try to help, even if I'm more chaos than solution," he said, holding his hands up in surrender.
And quieter ones, like when I stood frozen at my friend's wedding, the toast I'd practiced for weeks gone completely from my mind. "You whispered the first line to me under your breath," I reminded him. "Just loud enough to catch it."
 "I promise to learn to voice up what I need," I added.
One night, he grew quiet before speaking.
 "When we brought Jimmy home for the first time," he murmured, "I whispered, 'I hope we don't mess him up too badly,' and you didn't laugh or reassure me. You just reached for my hand."
 He looked at me, his voice tender. "I promise I will keep trying. Even when I don't know how."
And so it continued.
Some nights we laughed. Other nights, we cried. Some memories surprised us with how much they still hurt. Others made us nostalgic and happy. The ritual didn't fix everything. It didn't erase the hard parts. But it made space. It made room for gentleness to return.
Then for weeks and weeks, we added another ritual. Every night,  after sharing a memory and a small promise, there'd be a soft hush between us. Then Thomas would open his arms, and I'd step into them almost before he finished the gesture. The hug was never rushed; it lasted until the weight of the day eased a little from both our shoulders. His chin resting against my hair, my cheek pressed to the steady beat of his heart.
Every night, he'd lean in close, breath warm against my ear, and whisper something in French.
Sometimes it was teasing, almost boyish: "Tu es mon plus beau cadeau. " — You're my most beautiful  gift.
 Sometimes it was quiet and aching: "Pardonne-moi d'avoir mis si longtemps à te retrouver." — Forgive me for taking so long to find you again.
 Once, his voice rough and shy: "Même maintenant, tu me rends nerveux." — Even now, you make me nervous.
One night, I laughed softly and told him, "I'm going to start recording these. I want to know what they mean." He smiled against my hair, the sound of it caught between relief and vulnerability. "Okay. But promise you'll still let me say them first."
So I did and every night, like a teenager half in love with hope again, I'd hurry back to our room, phone in hand, to type them into a translation app, piecing together the tenderness he couldn't yet say in English, word by quiet word.
Then, in the next session, Dr. Mireille's voice turned softer, careful but unwavering. She looked at both of us, her gaze steady. "These words matter. The memories matter too. You have done a wonderful job, but there's one memory you've both been circling around, afraid to speak because it hurts so deeply you worry it might undo all the progress you've made." She let that truth settle, then named it: "The affair."
The air seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest. I was really not eager for this particular conversation.