October, The Odd Ones

Thomas stood up slowly, like the weight of everything between us was pressing down on his joints. His eyes met mine for a long, quiet moment. I could see the yearning there—he wanted to hug me, maybe even kiss my forehead like he used to when things were simpler, when love wasn't layered with so much pain. But he didn't move. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, then curled into fists and dropped.

"I should head back to the hotel," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough at the edges.

"You're still staying there?" I asked, brow furrowing. I tried to keep the judgment out of my tone, but it slipped in anyway. "I mean... I know you come every night to see the kids, but that's not exactly stable."

He gave a small, tired laugh, then rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to physically erase the shame. "Yeah... I was hoping this was just temporary. I told myself it was. But the more I reflect on what I did... the more therapy I go to... the more I realize there's no temporary fix for the kind of damage I've done. Not to you. Not to the kids. Not to myself. so I have been looking for houses close by."

I nodded slowly, my arms crossed without thinking. A kind of shield. He gave me a sad smile, the kind that said he understood, then turned and walked away—his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his shoulders slightly hunched like he was carrying a version of himself he was still learning how to let go of.

And I stood there, rooted in place, listening to the silence he left behind. I wasn't just angry. That emotion was still there, simmering low and bitter, but it had been eclipsed by something heavier—grief. Not the kind that comes all at once, loud and obvious, but the slow, creeping kind that clings to everything. I felt it in my limbs, in the way I stood still even though I wanted to run.

I held the papers in my hands—stiff, sterile things—and thought about how I would have given anything for him to show up for me. In any shape or form. A word. A touch. Just proof that I still mattered. But he didn't. I'm afraid my heart is too bruised now, too tired from breaking open and stitching itself back together again in silence.

**

In the weeks that followed, Thomas continued to bring the kids home just before dinner. He always had—it was one of those quiet rhythms we fell into, an unspoken agreement neither of us ever revisited. Just the sound of the door opening and there he was: two backpacks slung over one shoulder, dinner in hand, his face wearing that gentle, unreadable expression.

The dinners were always homemade now. That surprised me. Before everything fell apart, he'd never cooked a day in his life. So he was either watching YouTube tutorials or—God help me—someone was teaching him. But I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. He brought dinner for all of us, laid it on the counter, and never stayed. My parents never invited him in, and that was by my design. I didn't want to blur the lines, didn't want to confuse the kids more than they already were.

While I set the table or talked with my mother, he took care of the kids—helped Jimmy with his homework, played with Alice and Lola in the living room, his laughter a soft background hum I tried not to pay attention to. I watched them sometimes from the kitchen, trying to stay detached. Trying not to feel.

Then, like always, when it was time to go, he lingered near the doorway. He'd rub his palms together like he wasn't sure what to do with them, glance back at the kids, and then at me—but never for long. Just a flicker. Just enough to make something ache, then gone again.

"Goodnight, October," he said softly, voice warm and low like he didn't want to wake anything fragile. "Call me if you need anything."

I nodded automatically. But I didn't want to nod. I didn't want to be quiet anymore.

I stood there drying my hands on a towel, heart hammering. I thought of all the things I never said. All the questions I buried under pride and silence. then i remembered my therapist: "October, can I ask you something? Why do you assume people will know what you need if you don't say it?  You've spent so long bottling things up, hoping others will just understand, but that expectation often leads to disappointment."

So I blurted it out.

"You never gave me a birthday present," I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. "After that... fiasco."

He froze. Stopped moving mid-step, head low, like I'd knocked the air out of him. Then slowly—almost painfully—he turned to look at me and nodded.

"We will talk about that horrid night when I am ready, I am still not," I added, "but you said you had a present, waiting to be delivered and you didn't give me anything."

"You're right," he said quietly. "I never did. I ..I actually have it in my car," he said after a beat. "I had it delivered the night you... the night you called her my mistress. I didn't give it to you. It felt ... like I was buying your forgiveness."

I crossed my arms. "So you just thought... what? Not giving me anything was better?" He winced. Visibly. "or maybe money is better?" I added.

"There's no good answer to that," he admitted. "I genuinely apologise. I thought... maybe it was giving you freedom to buy what you want."

I blinked at him. "Let me guess. You got that suggestion from dear old Daddy?"

He winced again, this time like it actually hurt. "Yes. I told him what happened and he said... if I gave you money instead to make up for it, you could get whatever you wanted and it wouldn't feel... awkward."

 laughing bitterly. "Dear God, and in an enveloppe!!"

"I know," he whispered. "I know. It was stupid. It was horrible. Cruel, even. I was wrong. nothing justifies it. I should have seen how wrong it was on my own, can't blame him for this. I was scared of another confrontation and arguing, I was running as usual,  I am so sorry. Nothing will make it better, I know that."

I let the silence settle between us, let him squirm under the weight of it.

Then I said, simply, "Go get it."

His eyebrows lifted, uncertain. "The present?"

"Yes," I said, folding the towel with more force than necessary. "Go get it."

He hesitated for only a second, then nodded. "Okay. If... if you're sure."

And then he slipped out the door, just like that—into the night, toward the car. He came back in, carefully holding a small box — dark wood, smooth edges, no logo or label. Just quiet care. He walked slowly, his posture unsure, then set it gently in front of me on the table like it was something sacred.

"What is this?" I asked softly, already feeling my throat tighten.

Thomas exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before sitting across from me again,

"One day," he began, his voice tight as he swallowed hard, "everything just felt... heavy. Like I was drowning in this pressure I'd built around myself—to be perfect, to hold it all together, to live up to some version of who I thought I should be. And I couldn't breathe. I felt like the walls were closing in, and I didn't even know how to ask for help, or who I could ask." 

He paused, gaze drifting, as if searching for the right shape of memory. "So I tried to think of a moment when I felt light—free, even. Happy. Really happy. And there were many, scattered ones... but you were in all of them." His eyes found hers, and his voice softened, thick with something like regret. 

He glanced back down at his hands. "So I got in the car.  I just... drove. And I ended up there. At our tree. That old one by the bend in the river." He smiled faintly, a breath like a laugh caught in his throat. 

I blinked. My heart did a small, quiet flip, "The one we carved our names into?"

He nodded.

 "That day you asked me to be your girlfriend."

He smiled, barely. "Yeah."

"I...I stood in front of it for what felt like an hour," he said quietly, eyes distant. "Just looking at it. At us. That old tree... and the carving. And I remembered the boy I was, and the girl you were. How simple it felt back then. How pure."

My hands trembled slightly as I opened the box.

Inside was a necklace — delicate, understated, Its pendant gleamed softly, a warm, earthy brown, the grain of bark or wood and leaves, sealed beneath a smooth layer of resin like a secret frozen in time. I reached out, brushing my fingertip over its surface, breath catching.

As I turned it in my hand, the light caught something small on the back — the faintest engraving, almost shy. I leaned closer, heart stuttering.

T + O — Carved in Time

"I had a piece of the bark taken," he said softly, like he was sharing a secret meant only for us. "And some of the leaves — the ones that had fallen around the roots. I kept them. Pressed them. The bark... I had it shaped into this pendant. Sealed it, so it wouldn't fade."

I remembered that day. God, I remembered it so clearly.

*~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~*

We were barely eighteen, I was wearing a fluttery lilac sundress that kept catching the breeze like it had a mind of its own. My hair was a mess—wild and wind-tangled—and I didn't care. The air smelled like pine needles and sunshine, and my heart was doing this nervous little stutter in my chest, like it couldn't quite believe where I was or who I was with.

Thomas walked beside me, quiet as always, the summer sun brushing his shoulders. He wore a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the collar slightly askew like he'd dressed in a hurry but still managed to look effortlessly put-together. He always looked like he belonged in an old novel — sharp jaw, unreadable eyes, lips that rarely smiled. Most people thought he was cold, maybe even arrogant. Too serious. Too put-together for someone our age. But to me, he was just Thomas. My Thomas. Thoughtful, quiet, always a little lost in his head.

There was always something distant in the way he moved — like he'd grown up in rooms with too much silence and too many rules. But I saw past it. I saw the boy who waited for me after class, who remembered how I liked my tea, who once lent me his sweater when I was shivering and didn't ask for it back.

And I loved him. God, I loved him.

He led me to this tree—tall and knotted and a little bit magical—and stopped like he'd rehearsed this exact moment in his head a dozen times. He stared up at the branches like they held a secret only he could read. Then he looked at me. And those serious eyes—eyes that always looked like they'd seen more than they should have—suddenly went soft.

"I, uh..." he started, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding my eyes. "I like you. Like... a lot."

I was already grinning like an idiot. "You do?" I squeaked, even though inside, I was exploding with I love you, I love you, I've loved you forever. For years and years. Finally!

He gave this awkward little laugh—the kind that only ever slipped out when he forgot to be guarded—and pulled a small pocket knife from his jeans. My breath caught as he stepped toward the tree.

With slightly shaking fingers, he carved our initials into the bark. Slow. Uneven. Careful.
T + O.

Then he turned back to me, cheeks pink, eyes unsure. "Wanna..." He cleared his throat. "Maybe be my girlfriend? Officially."

I didn't hesitate. I launched myself at him, arms flying around his neck. "YES," I gasped into his shoulder, laughing. "Obviously, you idiot!"

He stumbled but caught me, laughing too—that soft, rare laugh I loved like a secret. Then he did the thing he only ever did when we were alone: he rested his head gently against my shoulder, like that was the one place in the world he didn't have to carry the weight of everything.

"I love your smell," he mumbled into my hair, and it made my heart collapse in the best way.  We stayed like that under the tree, wrapped up in each other, the bark still fresh and our initials catching the last golden light of day. Nothing was complicated yet. Nothing hurt.

*~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~**~🍀~*

I could barely hold back the tears. They pressed against my chest, hot and heavy, rising up my throat like a wave that had been building for months. I clenched my jaw, blinking too fast, trying to stay composed—but it was useless. The ache had found its way in.

How could you remember that, and still forget how to love me?

He must have seen it on my face, because his shoulders dropped, and he looked like someone who'd run out of places to hide.

"I lost sight of what we had—of what you gave me every single day without asking for anything in return," he said, his voice low and trembling. "I stopped seeing you the way I used to. I took your love for granted, like it would always be there no matter how far I drifted. I convinced myself that just being the breadwinner was enough, that providing was my only role, and I used that to justify how absent I became. I want to say it again—I'm sorry. For everything. For the emotional cheating, for the silence, for the way I made you feel invisible in a home that was supposed to be ours."

He paused, swallowing hard, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked on the last word. 

"I would give anything to go back and change it—all of it. Every decision, every lie, every careless moment. I've replayed it all in my head a thousand times, trying to undo it in my mind, but it always ends the same. I look at what I ruined and it hurts in a new way each time... because I lost you. And that's what breaks me, every single day."

And for one long, aching moment, neither of us spoke.

He looked down, fingers tightening into the fabric of his jeans, and said quietly, "I'd love nothing more than to stand here and beg you to take me back—to say all the right things, make all the right promises, swear I'd never hurt you again, never betray your trust, and spend every day showing you how deeply I cherish you. How I always did... even when I was too lost to show it."

He swallowed hard, "I'd get on my knees right now if I thought it would fix what I broke. I would. Gladly. But that wouldn't be fair to you—not now. Maybe not ever."

 He exhaled slowly, the weight of everything he'd left unsaid hanging between us. " But this is how I will fight for us, by first facing the parts of me I've ignored and becoming someone worthy of your forgiveness—of your grace. Whether that means we find our way back to each other one day... or not." 

He left and I stood there in the quiet, still holding the little box in my hand. Just feeling... sad. The kind of sadness that settles deep in your bones, that aches without sharpness. I turned the necklace over in my palm, feeling the weight of it, in everything it meant, and everything it didn't anymore. It was beautiful. Thoughtful. late.

I went to my room and placed it gently on the counter, not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't carry it with me just yet.

The next morning, after I dropped the kids off, I was planning to go to the gym but somehow my hands turned the wheel on their own. I hadn't meant to come here. The path was overgrown, but my feet remembered the way.

The tree stood tall, rough and weather-worn, but still here. The initials were faded but not gone. Mine and his. The boy who carved them with hands that trembled. The girl who said yes before he even finished the question.

I crouched down, brushing bark dust from the roots trying to hold some leaves, when something caught my eye — a soft glint beneath the ivy.

A plaque. Small. Brass. Set into the base of the tree. I stared at it for a long moment, heart still and breath caught somewhere in my chest.  My fingers brushed over the engraving like it might vanish if I touched too hard. It was in French.

He learned it because I once told him it was the language of love. I didn't think he'd remember. It had been one of those fleeting, soft confessions shared late at night — me, curled into his side, tracing circles on his chest, telling him how beautiful the world sounds when spoken in French. He'd laughed then, said he'd need a thousand years to learn it. But he had tried and wrote:

"Les feuilles s'effacent, l'odeur d'Octobre persiste."

༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･