Sweet Romance13 min read
Next One, Better — The Rain, Ginger, and a Reckoning
ButterPicks15 views
1
The night I ended it with Franz, the rain came down like someone had emptied a bucket on the city.
I had no umbrella. I called him and he didn't pick up. When I finally made it home, soaked and shivering, there was a message: he'd found an umbrella for someone else.
"He's with Julianna," Chloe told me outright when she answered my phone. "He found her an umbrella."
"Of course he did," I said, and hung up.
I walked into my bedroom. On the nightstand was a framed photo: Franz and Julianna, close, smiling. It was the same photo they'd posted that week. Julianna leaned against him, like she belonged. I turned the frame face down with a calmness I didn't feel.
I packed fast. Rainwater dripped off my hair into a puddle on the floor. My heart felt like the water—spread thin, running out.
I called Franz.
"Hello?" He answered, voice warm like nothing had happened.
"Franz," I said. "We're done."
There was a pause. Then, "Cecilia—what are you saying?"
"I'm saying stop being the default. I'm saying I'm sending everything that has your name back to you." I hung up.
The next morning, I sent his boxes through the post office and quit waiting for anyone to chase me. People in the group chat made bets about how long I'd last outside his orbit. They bet an hour, a day. I opened the chat and typed, "I bet a lifetime," and left the group.
"I thought you'd run back," Chloe said when she burst through my door the next day, fussing over my forehead and hair like she could smooth out the ache. She fussed because she was my friend and because she hated Julianna for being easy and smiling too much.
"Maybe I used to," I said. "Not anymore."
She made me ginger soup and tucked a blanket around me. "You're burning up," she scolded. "Take these—meds. Sleep."
When I finally slept, I dreamed of rain. When I woke, there was a message from Franz's friend group with laughing emojis and bets. I opened it, felt that old tug to look back, then slid my thumb across the screen and deleted the app. I was done being the boring answer to someone else's boredom.
2
On Monday I wore a navy skirt, a neat blouse, and went to work—my job, the one I'd earned without anyone's help. I edited stories, chased deadlines, sat in meetings and wrote. I liked the work because it was honest and quiet.
I caught my heel in the elevator that morning and almost fell. A hand caught me, firm and steady.
"Careful." The voice was low. I smelled rain and something like pine. I steadied myself and looked up.
Silas Blackburn stood there: tall, clean-cut, the kind of man people paid to be in ad campaigns. He had been a friend of Franz's back in university but not the type of guy Franz wound up showing off. He rarely spoke, but when he did, people listened.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes." I swallowed a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. "Thank you."
He didn't let go fast. He kept me steady like a tree receives wind. He had a way of looking that was both watchful and lazy. He didn't laugh at me for being clumsy.
"Still thinking about him?" he asked.
"I am not," I said too quickly.
He smiled like he'd known the truth already. "Good."
3
Silas showed up in the most inconvenient places and the most helpful ways. At a company meeting he rose and said, "Our editorial team will partner with market for the next quarter." Then, his gaze found me.
"Tonight there's a dinner," he told me. "You should come."
I stared at him. "Why?"
"Because you work hard, and because you write well." He shrugged like it was the most natural thing. "Come with me."
I went. I thought he'd be the kind of man who drank too much and said smart things. He was the opposite. When a man leered and tried to press a glass into my hand, Silas stepped in front of me and gently moved me back.
"Not tonight," he said.
He protected me without making a show of it. He didn't announce to the table that he was saving me. He simply stood there, quiet and sure. When the night ended, he insisted on seeing me into a car. "Let me," he said.
Inside the cab he handed me a small paper bag. "For your feet," he said. Inside was a pair of flats.
"These cost a month's rent," I muttered.
"Keep them," he said. "They're just shoes."
I was suspicious. Gifts from Franz's friends had always come with strings. Silas's present felt like something he'd been saving for himself because he liked the idea of me being comfortable.
4
Silas did things that made my chest flutter in small ways and big ones, over days and weeks.
"Here," he'd say, handing me a cup of coffee he knew I liked. He'd catch my shoe heel when I stumbled. Once, when the office was loud and everyone buzzed, he leaned close and whispered, "You write truth. Don't let them make you small." He didn't say it like an order. He said it like a verdict he meant.
When he smiled at me for the first time without restraint, it surprised me. I had always been the one to stare. Now someone else was watching me the same way.
One rainy evening, when I waited for a taxi outside the office, he appeared under an umbrella. He stretched the canopy to keep me dry even if it meant getting soaked himself. He offered his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. "You get colder than you let on," he murmured.
My breath hitched when he put the coat on me. "Why do you keep doing things like this?" I asked.
"Because none of it felt fair before," he said. "Because I don't like watching the people I care about get hurt." His hand brushed mine for a second when he steadied me, and the world rewrote itself.
5
He made a point of people noticing.
At a company lunch he moved his chair to sit beside me. "This is my table now," he said as if settling a claim. Colleagues coughed and smiled. Small surprise rippled through the room. "You're amazing to work with."
"You're biased," I said.
"Prove me wrong," he dared.
When a co-worker teased that I'd only stayed single to chase ghosts, Silas cut in, "She broke things off long before she became anyone's echo. She's her own voice." His voice was warm and a little fierce. I felt seen and oddly protected, like someone had stepped between me and a long shadow.
6
Franz didn't vanish. He made the mistake many people make: he thought absence would make me come running.
One late, thunderous night, he found me on the stairwell. "Cecilia," he said, voice rough. "What are you doing? Why won't you answer?"
"You gave Julianna your umbrella," I said.
He looked at me like I had a secret. "I didn't—"
"You stood in the rain with someone else so she wouldn't get soaked," I finished. "I packed your things. I sent them back."
His face shifted—first disbelief, then anger. He reached for me. "You don't get to—"
"Don't touch me." The words came out ice-cold. He backed away as if struck.
He tried text messages, calls. He posted pictures that were meant to mean things. He missed us. He missed attention. He missed control. But he didn't want to change.
A week later he showed up at my building when I left work. "Let me walk you," he insisted, holding an umbrella like a prop.
"Keep it," I said.
7
That night turned into the first public scene where things broke loudly.
He stepped toward me, umbrella in hand, and said, "Cecilia, I made a mistake."
"Then fix it," I said.
He shook his head. "It wasn't like that with Julianna. She's—"
"She's your childhood friend," I cut him off. "She's an option you kept for convenience."
He laughed—a short, ugly sound. "You think you were the only one good enough? I never promised anything."
People gathered. A few colleagues had left the building and slowed, drawn by the raised voices. Silas arrived without hurry; he had followed at a distance when he felt the situation tense. He watched quietly as I stood under the glow of a streetlamp.
"Leave her alone," Silas said finally.
Franz turned. "Who are you?"
"Silas Blackburn," he said. "My name." He stepped forward, slow as a tide. "She's done with you."
Franz lunged. He wanted to be the man with rights, claims, history. Silas blocked him. A short clash, three blows—Silas's punches were controlled, exact. Franz staggered back, hands to his mouth where blood glistened.
"Don't," I said. "Both of you stop."
Silas pulled me close and shielded me with his body like a living wall. The courtyard smelled like rain and metal. Franz swore, some friends hissed. Someone filmed with a phone. The video would travel later. Right now the world narrowed to breath, beats, the steady press of solidarity.
"You're a coward," Silas told Franz quietly.
Franz spat, "She's mine."
"Not anymore," Silas said.
I wanted to be above it. I wanted to be calm. But seeing Franz's face—angry, then incredulous, then small—was a kind of victory. He had treated me like a convenience for so long. Now his own friends shuffled away. The corner office people who had laughed at my jokes came closer like witnesses. Someone took Franz's umbrella and tossed it into a trashbin. A petty, collective punctuation.
8
A week later there was a gathering—an industry party hosted at a glass-walled hotel with terraces and a view of the river. I didn't want to go, but Chloe insisted I come. "You need to be seen with someone who treats you humanely," she said.
"Who's performing?" I asked, hoping for a reason.
"No excuse," she said. "Just come."
I almost didn't go. I put on a simple dress and let Silas tie my hair back because he said it matched my eyes. "What if he's there?" I asked.
"If he is, then it's his last chance to remember how small he is," Silas said. He smiled in a way that made my knees soft.
The hotel room smelled of perfume and citrus. People chatted in haloed groups. The band played something bright and electronic.
I almost missed the first sign that things were about to detonate. A server brought a tray of champagne near the terrace. Franz was there, leaning against the railing as if the city owed him oxygen. Julianna was beside him, a laughing star, arm in his. A group of his old friends clustered around, tossing jokes like confetti.
Chloe grabbed my hand. "Ignore them," she whispered. I looked at her and then at Silas. He took my hand instead and squeezed.
We went out onto the terrace for fresh air. For a moment it felt like the world had edges: the railing, river, glass. Then Franz's voice carried over.
"Cecilia!" he called. "Can I speak with you?"
I froze. He had that tone—patronizing, sweet—like he was asking to correct a test.
"No," I said to myself, then louder: "No."
"Please," he said. "Just five minutes."
Chloe hissed, "Don't."
But Franz stepped closer and reached for me with hand theatrically open. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."
"You're not allowed to touch anyone like that," a woman near us said. She didn't know me. She looked at Franz with disgust. Around the terrace, people stopped, sensing the shift.
Silas watched. He moved like a shadow and stepped to Franz's side.
"She said no," he told Franz. "You should listen."
Franz laughed, the same ugly sound, then made a mistake. He raised his voice. "You don't know—"
"Stop," Silas said, and then he did something smart and public. He pulled his phone out and—without drama—held up a chat thread. The terrace went still.
"These are messages," Silas said. "From Franz to Julianna. Read them."
He scrolled. People leaned in. The messages were not warm. They were casual, entitled. "Good thing you're here. Miss you." "Saved you a seat." "Don't tell anyone." Worse was the tone: Franz had always thought he could have both.
People reacted. A man near the railing scoffed. "What a pig." Someone else laughed. Julianna's smile faltered. Her eyes went wide. A few turned to Franz, the bend in their voices full of disappointment.
"Is that true?" a woman near her asked.
Franz's face turned first to red, then chalky. He stammered. "They're old messages—" he tried.
Silas didn't let him off. "You've been stringing people along. You told her she was special. You told others whatever they wanted to hear."
"That's private!" Franz snapped.
"Now it's public," Silas answered.
People stepped back. The group's mood shifted like the tide. Franz's old friends looked at him the way judges look at criminals pleading for mercy in a courtroom drama. Julianna covered her mouth. Someone took a photo. Another started recording.
"Shame," said a voice from the crowd, sharp and not-kind.
Franz's anger curdled into pleading. "No—no—"
"Stop," Chloe said. "Leave her alone."
Franz tried to grab at both our hands as if cling could reset choices. Someone shouted, "How dare you."
Silas put a hand lightly on my back and pulled me away. He turned to the crowd and said, "This is why people get hung up on illusions. Because they think they can pretend to be different without consequences." He didn't shout. He didn't need to. His voice carried.
Franz's face broke into layers. First denial—"I didn't—" then faux indignation—"You're making false things up"—then fear when people around him started to murmur angrily. "You're making me look bad," he said finally, the whine in his voice loud.
An older woman stepped forward. "You made him look bad," she said, voice even. "You used people. You lied."
The terrace crowd grew louder. People jeered. Someone tossed a napkin at Franz. Julianna turned away. "How long have you been doing this?" someone demanded. He couldn't answer.
Franz's friends, who had been his shields, looked at each other and then away. That was a signal. The stallions who had joked with him and protected his jokes decided the joke was over. One by one, they sank back into silence and left him stranded.
He sank into a patio chair like a man who had lost a hand. His breath came short. His face was a map of things he'd never seen. He whispered, "You don't understand."
Around him, people took out phones and uploaded slices of the event: a line of chat, his face when the crowd turned. The clip went small and bright, then started to spread.
Silas watched, expression steady. I watched. Chloe held my hand tight. The world had broken around Franz, but I didn't feel triumphant. I felt relieved.
"That was public," someone said. "Anyone can see."
"Good," another replied. "He needs to know the cost."
Franz's reaction changed: from anger to denial to panic. He pressed his palms to his temples and muttered, "Please. Please. This isn't fair. You can't do this to me."
"I'm done talking to you," I said. My throat shook but my voice was clear. "You had a long time to be honest. You chose not to be. That's your thing now, not mine."
He tried to approach me again, and someone—two women, strangers—stepped between us and said, "Back off." A man recorded him, hands trembling. The terrace buzzed like an electric fence at the sight of his collapse.
When he finally left, no one followed. The moment's applause came in fragments of mutters and clicks. Julianna wiped her face with a napkin. Franz's friends avoided looking back. The party resumed, but the stain stayed.
9
After that night, Franz's messages went cold. His calls became desperate and then stopped. The viral clips followed him. People who had once laughed at his jokes sent him silent, scornful texts. Colleagues I didn't even know sent me messages: "We saw. Good for you." "Can't believe he was like that."
Chloe high-fived me in the elevator. "They deserved that," she said.
I felt a strange mercy toward Franz—sharp, not soft. He had been small in ways I wanted to keep far away. I didn't want to ruin him. I wanted only not to be held hostage by him anymore.
Silas stayed steady. He made ginger soup the first night I came home from the hotel party. He boiled ginger with rock sugar and watched me as I drank. "Do you like it now?" he asked.
"It tasted like you," I said.
He smiled, and his smile was an honest thing. Everyone at work noticed. Someone sent a group message filled with exclamation marks. His colleagues teased him and then smiled when they saw how careful he was with me.
"Consider the assessment stage over," he said one morning, handing me a note. "Official status: day one."
I laughed and kissed him on impulse. "Good morning, boyfriend," I said.
"Good morning, girlfriend," he answered.
10
The aftermath came with small, delightful things: breakfasts on my desk, a coffee cup with a note that said "Study hard," a flat where someone had left a stack of books I'd mentioned liking. Once, when I was nervous about an assignment, he sat next to me and said, "You'll do fine. You always do." He put his hand on my shoulder then—no rush, no demand.
I kept the little paper notes he left—"Assessment day 1," "Assessment day 28"—and eventually, "Promoted." I collected them like a chronicle.
Franz disappeared from my feed. His friends, the ones who had wagered on my response, started sending red packets with sheepish emojis and messages, "We were childish. Hope you're okay." I laughed when I opened them. "Payback," Silas said, watching me. He was amused and a little smug.
At a small brunch, Julianna walked up to me, apologetic. "I—" she began.
"It's okay," I said. "You were someone's habit."
She blinked, shame and relief mixing. "You look happy."
"I am," I answered.
Silas squeezed my hand under the table as if to make sure I noticed his presence. "You deserve it," he said.
11
Sometimes, at night, when the window threw city light across the sheets, I would remember the rain with a strange fondness. Not for the pain, but because the rain had been a divider. It had washed one chapter closed.
Silas kept being quiet about big things and loud about small kindnesses. He would stand in the doorway after work in his damp coat and say, "You okay?" and that would be everything.
"Why did you stay?" I asked him once when we sat on the couch and the TV murmured a background story we did not hear.
"Because you were always honest with your work," he said. "And because you didn't ask me to be something I'm not." He reached for my hand. "Mostly because when you laughed, it made my day better."
He kissed my knuckles. The gesture made my chest warm, so warm I could almost believe that simple things were enough.
12
The company group that had made bets earlier sent a message months later: "You were right. She lasted." Attached were red packet emojis and a line: "Congrats, Silas."
"Pay the bets," Silas said laughing. "It cost me a dinner."
"I don't want a dinner," I said. "Just stay."
He stayed.
We grew in small ways: quiet Saturday mornings, awkward family introductions that were not dramatic, stories shared at two in the morning. We were, in truth, ordinary and extraordinary in the ordinary way.
I still kept the ginger-scented scarf he left at my neck after a rain. I kept the papers. I kept the memory of hands steady in elevators and the first time he smiled properly at me without reserve.
Once, when I mentioned the night on the terrace, he said, "You did the brave thing."
"I couldn't have if you hadn't shown up," I answered.
He looked at me like a man who found treasure and then hid it in plain sight. "You were brave before I ever showed up."
We laughed then, because some truths are small and soft: we both saved each other in ways that felt simple and true. He taught me it was okay to let someone else protect me. I taught him how to be present without drama.
13
As for Franz—life has a way of making echoes loud when people forgot they were being heard. He learned that being careless about people had costs.
He tried once to apologize in the hallway. I let him speak for two minutes. He said, "I'm sorry." He looked hollow, like someone who had misread a map his whole life. I nodded, because my nod meant the conversation ended.
People gossiped for a week after—then people moved on.
14
One late afternoon, I sat on the balcony with a bowl of the ginger soup Silas would make sometimes. The city hummed. Rain threatened but held. There was a softness in the air.
Silas sat beside me, and without any grand gesture he took my hand. "Do you remember what you bet in that chat?" he asked.
"I said I'd be gone forever," I replied.
"You won," he said. "You won the best way."
I smiled. The past had been a classroom. Now the lessons were small: carry an umbrella; don't wait for men who don't run; let the people who care chase you like it's their job.
Silas tightened his grip. "Stay," he said.
"I will," I said.
And then he kissed me, careful and true, like someone who would rather collect a thousand quiet mornings than one loud promise. The kiss was simple and perfect.
That night the rain finally started. We sat together and let the city wash bright. I placed the small paper note he'd given me on the table: "Promoted — Day 1 of Official." I pinned it on the corkboard with a smile.
This story is not about a grand revenge. It's about small gifts, steady hands, the taste of ginger, and the way a man who notices will change the weather for you. It is about learning to leave and learning to stay where it's safe.
The End
— Thank you for reading —