The Call She paused by her phone. What if he didn't want to hear what she had to say? He wasn't the angry type, but this had never come up between them. Ellie had just said to do it quick. Like ripping off a Band Aid. It wasn't that easy. Still... Wouldn't it be better if she told him? Twirling the diamond ring on her left hand, she dialed his number. Voicemail. Her brief confidence shattered. They could be ruined. She would hate that. She loved him. And they'd already picked out a cake. Seven tier, black and white, almost thirty different intricate patterns. It was fabulous. But this dilemma wasn't about the cake. It was about the call, and that one weekend in LA. She dialed his number again, nausea roiling in her stomach at the thought of how this could go. Voicemail. Again. She hiccuped. "Hey, it's me. Umm, give me a call back when you can. I'd really like to talk to you. It's, ah... It's important." She hit "end," and swallowed. Ellie's voice echoed in her head, "You gotta do it! Be strong! Nothing between you two will change." Again, she dialed. And yet again, the call rolled to voicemail. She took a deep, steadying breath, and started to talk. "Hey, um, it's me. Well, just forget that last message. I guess I'll just tell you now. Um, wow. This is a lot harder than I thought. Okay. Ah... It's about the weekend I was in LA. With Luca, remember? So we had dinner and went to a bar for a few drinks after. And I met a guy. And we talked, and then we were in his car, and then his apartment. I - I don't even know what was happening. I didn't mean to and I would take it all back if I could. I don't even - I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't, I guess. Please don't be mad. My judgement was skewed. To many drinks, I guess. He - I... I'm sorry." "I love you."

Him and Her The room he'd been thrown into was dark. The walls were rough and wet. A single window on the west side of the room let in a sliver of light. It was barred. It stopped him from escaping, but didn't stop the spiders and rats from crawling in. As they'd tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him there through the dirt streets, they swore it wasn't a prison where they were taking him. They promised it wasn't a cell. It was. He knew it, and so did they. It was early fall. The days were crisp. The nights were chilled. So were the screams that came from the other cells. Cold, piercing the brittle blackness like knives. He hardly heard those screams, though. He only heard her sobs. She'd been so stoic, for so long. But now her wall of bravery was beginning to crumble, and him along with it. For he knew it was his fault, that neither one of them would ever feel a fresh breeze against their faces. He knew that they'd never dip their toes in the Seine. He knew they'd never laugh, running hand in hand, bathed in late summer sun. He knew that their days were numbered.