Listen to Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer

TRISTAN'S POV

The ticking of the clock above the closet doorway echoed like a countdown I couldn't escape. I had checked it a dozen times, maybe more—its cold, indifferent face mocking my impatience. Every second stretched into eternity, each one heavier than the last, until I could barely breathe. When would she get back? The silence in the room felt like it was pressing in from all sides. Every creak in the house, every gust of wind rattling the window, made my heart jump, expecting it to be her footsteps. But they never came.

I lay in the dark, watching it swallow me whole, feeling the weight of the empty space beside me. The darkness had become my closest companion, the only thing that didn't flinch or recoil from me. The hours passed, dragging along like an endless loop. This was my new routine, this waiting. Every night, the same anxious, aching waiting, like a child eagerly anticipating Santa, not for presents, but for the sound of her footsteps—proof that she was coming back, proof that she still existed in my world, even if only for a few more hours.

I hated how obsessive I'd become, but I couldn't help it. My mind fixated on her—on the way she was slipping further and further away from me. I wanted to scream at her to quit that damn diner, to put her energy into school, into us, but I knew she wouldn't hear it. She hadn't accepted anything from me in so long, not even my concern. The thought of her working there, of her struggling, cut deep. And the worst part was I couldn't do anything to change it.

I had begged her to take one of the cars, to make things easier, but she refused, as if accepting help was another form of failure. God, how much more would she suffer before she realized I'd do anything for her? Anything. The anger I felt toward her pride twisted in my gut, but I pushed it down. She wasn't mine to fix anymore, and if I wasn't trying so hard to respect her space, I would have been at that diner every night, waiting in the parking lot to drive her home myself, to carry her to the car if I had to. The fear of something happening to her—of her coming home late, alone, in the dark, twisted itself into every possible nightmare, replaying again and again in my mind.

I couldn't even imagine her leaving for the apartment—no—I couldn't stomach it. The thought of her walking out of here, it shredded something deep inside me. But I knew it was coming. I could feel it, like a storm cloud gathering in the distance. She hadn't even said it, but I could already see it in the way she'd barely look at me since we came back from Cuba. The space between us felt like a canyon, a vast divide that no amount of time or words could bridge. The closure I thought we had found there, in the heat of that island, felt like a cruel joke.

And the kids—God, I hadn't even dared to bring it up. Not yet. We both knew what she wanted, what she had to want, but the idea of her walking away from me, from us... the weight of it felt like a stone in my chest. I couldn't do it. I wasn't ready to lose her again.

I wanted to believe she was still here, still willing to fight for us, even if I didn't deserve it. I wanted to give her the space to decide for herself, to go at her own pace, but it was getting harder every day. I couldn't ignore it anymore. I couldn't deny how much I still wanted her, how desperately I was still fighting for a second chance, even if it meant her hating me. Even if it meant her never forgiving me.

The guilt tore at me, gnawing from the inside out. I didn't deserve her. I didn't deserve the way her love used to feel. I didn't deserve the way she carried our children, the way she'd fought for them—for us. She'd kept the twins, she'd chosen them, and I couldn't even fathom the toll that decision had taken on her. The pain of it. What had she gone through, carrying that weight, and how I could have been the cause of it all.

I wanted her to be happy again. To smile that smile that made the world feel brighter, the one that lit up her whole face, and her eyes—God, her eyes. They used to shine, full of hope and light. And I had taken that from her. I had stripped her of everything good between us, and I couldn't take it back.

But as much as it hurt to admit it, I was too selfish to let her go. I couldn't stand the thought of another man standing where I once did, giving her the love and the life I should've given her. I couldn't stand the idea of her walking away.

So I waited. I waited, and I listened. For the sound of her footsteps. For the moment when she'd come back to me. Even if only for a moment. Even if that moment would break my heart.

She'd told me she had forgiven me, but I knew it was a lie, a courtesy for the kids' sake. She said the words because she had to, not because she meant them. I didn't blame her; she had every reason to hate me, to keep me at arm's length, but that didn't stop the weight of her forgiveness from feeling hollow. And yet, I would spend the rest of my life trying to earn it, if I had to. Every moment, every breath, I would fight to prove I could be worthy of her. I didn't want her to stay out of obligation—God, I didn't want that for her. But I needed her to know that I would be there, always, for the kids. We could co-parent, share what we had left, even if it wasn't what I wanted. I would live for the moments when I got to see them, to hold them, to breathe in their little world. They were everything to me—everything I had left to fight for.

And I would fight. I would fight to be better. Better for them. Better for her. Even if she never looked at me the same way again, even if she never let me back into her heart, I would show her. Day in, day out. With every breath, I would fight to prove that I'd changed, that I wasn't the man I used to be. I would burn every bridge I had, tear down every wall, just to make her smile again. Even if it meant burning the whole damn world to ashes, I would do it, just to see that fire in her eyes again. I wouldn't let go. I couldn't.

The sound of a door opening downstairs startled me. She was back. My heart surged with a rush of relief, like the floodgates had just been opened. I sat up on the bed, leaning forward, straining to hear her footsteps as she made her way up the stairs. I imagined her, tired from the long night at the diner, the soft swish of her clothes as she climbed the steps. But the sound never came.

Seconds ticked by, thick and heavy. I listened for any sign of movement, but all I could hear was the slow thrum of my own heartbeat in my ears. Maybe she stopped to grab a bite to eat, I thought. Maybe she'd even let me make her favorite meal for her. Would she accept it? Would she let me take care of her, just for a moment? I didn't care what time it was.

Few minutes passed, and still nothing. No footsteps. No creak of her door opening. I stood, restlessness gnawing at me. Every nerve in my body was stretched tight, pulled taut with a need I couldn't deny. I walked to my door, reached for the handle, but stopped myself. Not yet, I told myself. Just a little longer. Another five minutes.

I lingered, anxiety turning my thoughts into a chaotic blur. What if she didn't want to see me at all? What if she was still too hurt? What if she needed space? But the selfish part of me was willing to risk it all just to see her. To be with her, even for a moment.

And then, as if the universe had been waiting for me to reach my breaking point, I heard her. Her soft voice, barely a whisper, followed by the rhythmic cadence of her footsteps. My heart slammed against my chest. Every cell in my body screamed at me to open the door, to just look at her, even for a fraction of a second. To catch a glimpse of the woman I still loved with everything inside me.

I stood frozen, unable to move, as her footsteps grew closer. She was near—so close I could almost feel her presence pressing against the door. My breath hitched, and for a moment, I could have sworn she was standing there, just on the other side, feeling the same pull I did. Was she looking at my door, wondering if I was awake? If I could hear her coming? Maybe she was hoping, just like I was, for a sign that we weren't entirely broken. But then her footsteps stopped.

Did she know I was awake? Could she feel my longing on the other side of the door, or was it something else—something darker, more resigned? Was she standing there, waiting for me to make the first move, or had she already moved past the idea of us entirely?

I moved, careful not to make a sound, and edged closer to the light switch. Two feet, maybe three, and I flipped the switch on. The sharp flicker of light seemed to cut through the tension in the room like a knife. In that instant, I saw her shadow, soft and wavering, behind the door. It wasn't much, but it was everything to me.

I held my breath, fighting every instinct that screamed for me to open the door. Every muscle in my body begged me to step into the hallway, to reach for her, to say something. Anything. But I stayed still. I wouldn't push her. I wouldn't make her feel trapped, not again. But still, every part of me wanted to see her, to tell her how good she looked, how the sight of her in that damn uniform still had the power to turn my insides to liquid.

I waited. I prayed. I held my breath, willing her to knock, to do something—anything—to bridge the gap between us. The moments stretched on, unbearable and excruciating, until finally, I heard her footsteps, retreating.

My heart dropped.

I pressed my forehead to the door, the cool wood pressing against my skin, grounding me in the only reality I could hold onto. The reality that I had lost her. Not just her love, but the trust that had once tied us together. She couldn't even bring herself to knock on my door. 

I stayed there for a while, forehead against the door, listening to the soft thud of her door closing. It was the finality of it that broke me. The sound was a rejection, a barrier I couldn't cross. She had drawn the line. And I had no right to beg her to cross it. I deserved that silence. I deserved the distance.

I turned off the light and went back to bed, each movement feeling like it took longer than it should. My body ached with the weight of what I had lost, and the pain in my chest was sharp, relentless. The kind of pain that came from longing for someone you could feel so close, yet you knew you could never touch again. When she was an ocean away, I had resigned myself to the fact that I'd lost her forever. There had been some twisted comfort in that certainty. But now? Now, she was here, within arm's reach, and yet still impossibly far away.

I closed my eyes, fighting the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. A small, bitter laugh escaped my lips, a raspberry of disbelief at the way life had twisted and turned. A part of me craved normalcy. The kind of life where I could just be—where I wasn't haunted by ghosts of the past, or consumed by guilt over things I couldn't undo. I wanted comfort. Acceptance. Stability. But everything had been shattered when I lost Fiona, when I lost Nadia. Now, I longed for those simple, beautiful moments I used to take for granted. The laughter, the quiet mornings, the feeling of being whole with her. But even as I reached for those desires, they seemed impossible. Unfathomable.

Every time I closed my eyes, the shadows of my past crept in. The memories of all the ways I had failed her—the broken promises, the words I couldn't take back, the man I'd been. It whispered that I wasn't worthy of her love, that I was nothing but a source of pain in her life. That no matter how hard I tried, I'd never get back what I'd lost.

I tried to push the thoughts away, tried to follow the advice my therapist had drilled into me over the months. "Design your happy place," she had said. "Create a mental space where you're free, where the past doesn't hold you captive." So, I built it—brick by brick, moment by moment.

I imagined walking her down the aisle, seeing her face as she looked up at me with love and forgiveness in her eyes. I imagined buying a house, a place where we could start over, a home for our children to grow up in, a home filled with laughter, memories, us.

In that place, she had forgiven me. Her love shone brighter than the sun, her smile the kind of radiant warmth I would never take for granted again. I held onto that image with everything I had, hoping—praying—that somehow, one day, I might be worthy of that love again.

Slowly, reluctantly, my mind began to ease. I drifted into sleep, pulling myself into that sanctuary, that happy place. For a moment, at least, I was free.

∆

The soft hum of my morning routine began before the alarm clock even had the chance to go off. My body had grown accustomed to waking up at six a.m., the rhythm of early mornings now ingrained in me. Stretching my arms overhead, I rose from bed and made my way to the closet. The cool air brushed against my skin, still fresh from the night. As I pulled on my running shorts and a muscle top, I glanced at the twins' room down the hall. Then I turned my gaze toward Chloe's door. She was still asleep—probably exhausted from the long hours she worked. The thought lingered, pulling at something deep within me, but I shoved it away. 

I moved through the house quietly, trying not to disturb the peace that still lingered, and headed for the front door. The air was warm but crisp, a gentle breeze tangling in my hair as I stepped outside. The golden rays of the sun stretched across the sky, soft and welcoming, as though the earth itself was giving me a hug. I breathed deeply, feeling the warmth on my skin, grounding myself in the quiet stillness of the morning. This was my moment of clarity—the world still half-asleep, the sky shifting through shades of pink and orange.

There was something sacred about these early runs. I'd started them back at the rehab facility, a way to shed the weight of my past, and I'd continued the habit since. Running allowed me to clear my mind, to let go of the noise and tension that constantly swirled in my chest. The silence of the world before it fully woke up felt like a refuge. A rare moment of peace before the chaos of the day arrived.

I popped in my Airpods and started my run, the steady rhythm of my feet pounding against the pavement grounding me as I moved. I jogged for thirty-five minutes, my body settling into the routine, the familiar burn of exertion replacing the gnawing ache that always lived in my chest. As I jogged back toward the house, I felt the sweat dripping down my back, soaking my shirt.

Inside, I shed my damp clothes, downing two bottles of water in quick succession. As I made my way upstairs, I paused at the twins' room, then hesitated outside Chloe's door. It had been weeks since we'd returned from Cuba, and the distance between us still felt like an ocean. I wasn't sure where to place myself in her life anymore, or how to make her trust me again. I couldn't even figure out if I should knock, or if she wanted me anywhere near her.

I pushed the door to the twins room open, careful not to make a sound. The sight before me took my breath away. There, on the floor, Chloe lay curled up with a duvet wrapped around her small frame. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, and it twisted something inside me.

My chest tightened as I took in the image—her body pressed against the floor, clearly not the most comfortable way to sleep. I tried not to let the flood of guilt swallow me whole, but it was impossible to ignore. Had she been sleeping on the floor all night? Since we moved the twins into this room? The thought gnawed at me. Had she been scared? Scared of us taking the kids away, scared of what might come next. The weight of her fears was so tangible it almost choked me.

I wanted so badly to fix it. To make her feel safe in this house. To make her trust me again. But the wall she had built between us was as impenetrable as ever, and the ache in my chest was a constant reminder of all I had lost.

I stepped closer, my heart in my throat, and crouched down next to her. There was a quiet tenderness to the moment, and I found myself reaching out, my fingers grazing the soft curve of her cheek. I had meant to wake her, but instead, I found myself tracing every delicate feature of her face, as though doing so would somehow imprint her into my memory forever. The warmth of her skin was intoxicating.

She looked so peaceful in her sleep, her chest rising and falling gently. The weight of it all hit me like a freight train. I had done this to her. I had pushed her to this point, made her carry the weight of everything alone. 

God, she was beautiful. I could have stayed here forever, lost in the sight of her, in the vulnerability of her sleep. A part of me wanted to soak in every second, to savor the quiet privilege of being this close to her, even if she didn't feel the same way.

I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve her, not after everything I'd put her through. But I'd give anything to change it, to make her feel the safety and love she so desperately needed. 

If there was any justice in the world, I thought to myself, she'd find it in me again. But until then, I could only hope and wait.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely a breath against the quiet. My thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the soft curve of her skin like I was afraid she might slip through my fingers if I didn't hold on tight enough.

Her body stirred, a gentle shiver moving through her before her long lashes fluttered open. Her eyes locked with mine, and for a fleeting moment, everything else in the world fell away. Those eyes—they were still the same. Still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. A wave of emotion hit me, raw and sudden, and I felt my heart clench in response.

"Heyy," I murmured, my thumb lingering against her cheek, desperate for the connection.

But instead of softening, she jerked away from me, as if my touch burned her. The flinch, the instinctive withdrawal—it hit me like a slap. A searing ache flooded my chest. I wasn't surprised, not really. Given everything I'd done, everything I'd broken between us, I knew she had every right to react this way. But knowing that didn't make the pain any less sharp.

I watched her retreat, her movements sharp and jagged, as if she were trying to escape something dangerous. It stung—deeply. 

No matter how much space she needed, no matter how much she pushed me away, I couldn't let her go—not again. Not this time.

Chloe was my second chance. She always had been. And this time, I wouldn't run from it. I wouldn't hide from it. I wasn't going to cower under the weight of my own guilt. I wasn't the man who had let her walk away once before. I couldn't be that man again.

I still loved her. I loved her with every piece of me, every thread of my soul. And I knew, without a doubt, that I would love her for the rest of my life. Maybe even for eternity. It wasn't something I could control. It wasn't something I could stop, no matter how hard I tried. My love for her was the kind that only came once, the kind that consumed you, made you realize that without her, there was no reason for anything else.

I wanted a life with them—with her. I wanted to be the kind of father my twins deserved, the kind of man she could lean on. The kind of partner she could trust. And if that meant waiting—if it meant fighting through every barrier she built around herself, I would. I understood why she needed space. I understood that she needed time to heal. I'd given her space before, and I'd give her all the time she needed now.

But I wouldn't stop. Not until she knew that every ounce of love I had left was hers. I wouldn't stop until I proved to her that I could be the man she deserved—not the one who had let her walk away, but the one who would do anything to keep her in his life.