Showering in my hotel room, I sensed someone watching, then heard footsteps. A shaky “Housekeeping!” call came despite my “Do Not Disturb” sign. Peeking out, I saw the closet door ajar. Arming myself with a lamp, I found an envelope from “T”—my ex-fiancé, Tavian, who vanished before our wedding. His note urged a meeting in Room 317. A text confirmed it. Reluctantly, I went. Tavian explained his disappearance: he entered witness protection to avoid jail, linked to his father’s illegal business, to shield me. Now free, he tracked me via a social media post. Showing our faded engagement photo, he affirmed his love. Though pained, I recognized his truth. I held his hand, agreeing to talk, not promising more. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting—it’s healing on my own terms, perhaps allowing a second chance.
