As she scrolled through the thread, a painful pattern emerged. Message after message filled the screen, and she sent each one. She had poured her heart into every word, sharing everything from her lofty dreams to the tiniest details of her meals.
Ambrose’s responses were scarce; his replies were a rarity. And when he did bother to respond, the topic was always the same: Scarlett.
Hazel suddenly lost the desire to text him back.
If her words were destined to drift into silence, why waste the effort?
She was tucking her phone back into her pocket when Ambrose’s name lit up the screen. He was calling.
“Where are you? Why aren’t you home? It’s late already. Why haven’t you come back yet?” His voice carried a mix of urgency and subtle reproach.
Tonight, he had turned down Scarlett’s invitation, a rare occurrence, and returned home early, intending to spend time with Hazel. But when he walked through the door, the one who always waited for him was nowhere to be found.
She hadn’t answered his calls or texts, and his worry had escalated to the point where he almost called the police.
Hazel glanced at the clock, feeling a knot tighten in her chest.
It was 8 PM.
Ambrose had always been one to stay out late, sometimes not returning until the early hours or, worse, disappearing for the night.
Every time, Hazel had waited in silence, leaving a light on for him.
And if he had been drinking, she would fight off sleep, rising to make him soup, hoping it would sober him up.
But what had Ambrose ever done for her?
Hazel couldn’t recall a single thing. Her patience thinned, and her tone became sharper.
“Can’t I have a life of my own?”
It was the first time she had ever dared to speak back to him.
There was a pause on the other end of the line before his voice softened.
“Hazel, I’ve missed you these past few days.”
“Tomorrow’s our wedding day. I was just worried something might happen to you. Don’t be upset. Wait for me, alright? I’m coming to get you now.”
Within minutes, Ambrose pulled up in his car, unexpectedly holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
She didn’t take the flowers. Instead, she opened the passenger door, greeted by a faint yet unmistakable scent.
A wave of nausea hit her, and she quickly grabbed a tissue to wipe her hands, choosing to climb into the back seat instead.
Ambrose, absorbed in replying to his messages, remained unaware of her discomfort.