He came running towards me

 

Title: “At the Doorstep”

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I’ve always said Adrian was my safest place.

Not in a dreamy, hearts-and-roses way — we weren’t sweethearts. Not even close. We were the duo who stole each other’s fries and covered for each other’s teenage lies. He once told my dad I was at his place studying when I was actually hiding out at a concert. I repaid the favor by helping him sneak out to meet that girl — what was her name again? Right, Elyse. The one who’d eventually break his heart and flee to Paris to design thousand-dollar dresses and find herself or whatever.

We were best friends. Always had been. Our dads were practically brothers since high school, so it was written into the stars before we could walk — "Adrian and Briana, inseparable since diapers."

But marriage? That wasn’t part of the script.

It happened three years ago. Elyse had just flown off, leaving behind a sulking Adrian and a gaping hole in the friend I used to know. He was quiet. Detached. And maybe I was lonely too. My own failed engagement was still fresh. One night we found ourselves talking for hours like old times — only this time, there were silences that felt heavier than words.

Then came the suggestion — from his father, no less. “You two already know each other like an old married couple. Why not make it official?”

We laughed. At first.

But the idea caught on like a small spark in dry grass. Maybe it would work. Maybe love wasn’t always the starting point, but something you grew into — like ivy wrapping around a trellis.

So we married. Quietly. In a garden, under fairy lights, surrounded by people who thought it made perfect sense.

But fairy lights flicker.

Three years in, we were drifting. The friendship remained, but the closeness had become…hollow. We talked, sure. But not like before. Our jokes were fewer, our silences colder. He worked longer hours. I found reasons to stay out later. It felt like two people dancing in a house with different music playing in their heads.

Then Elyse came back.

I saw the text over his shoulder one night: “In town for a week. Would love to catch up.”

He hesitated. Then typed: “Sure. Let’s meet.”

He didn’t lie about it. That’s the part that hurt most.

They met. Once. Then twice.

I told myself not to care. We were never about passion, right? We were the safe choice. Maybe he deserved to know if there was still something there.

But the truth clawed at me — I wanted him to come home to me. Not out of habit. Out of want. Out of something more than comfort.

He didn’t come home that night.

But the next evening, just as the sun dipped below the rooflines, I heard footsteps. I was on the front porch, barefoot, staring at the last light.

He walked toward me. Slowly. His face unreadable.

And then he said the words that unraveled everything.

> “She’s still beautiful. Still chasing big dreams. But she’s not my home. You are.”

I didn’t cry. I just breathed again for the first time in weeks.

He reached for my hand, unsure, like the boy I once knew.

> “I think I’ve always loved you, Bri. I just didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to feel like fireworks. It was supposed to feel like this — like peace.”

And I opened the door behind me.

And this time, I let him in — not as my safe place, but as my choice.

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[End]