**Diary Entry**
I live in a lovely cottage, the kind with roses and lavender sprawling over the garden fence. The scent of hydrangeas and petunias in full bloom is intoxicating—bursts of purple so vivid they steal your breath away.
This afternoon, I curled up in the swing seat with a book, legs tucked beneath me. A golden apricot tart baked in the oven, its sweet tang mingling with the fresh mint from the bushes. It smelled like heaven ought to.
I always knew when he was coming. On those mornings, I’d knead the dough, humming as my fingers shaped it effortlessly. Pies were my magic—never those heavy roasts or stews Grandmother used to insist on. Funny. Once, she was the one who baked. Now, it’s me. And I’m certainly no grandmother.
He never planned his visits. Weeks would pass, then suddenly, he’d ache for me. Always called from the motorway.
He had nothing left—just remnants of a past life: two failed marriages, a son he barely saw, a boot crammed with belongings, and a slow crawl out of bitterness and despair.
We met at a beach barbecue. A gathering of strangers—neither of us wanted to go. His mate dragged him; my sister persuaded me. So we lingered on the edges, out of place. Then he asked me to dance. Later, he bought me an absurdly clichéd red rose from a vendor and drove me home, halfway across the county.
And just like that, we were tangled. He panicked. Why risk another heartache?
Yet every time the emptiness gnawed at him, he’d get in the car and drive. Just to bury his face in my hair and whisper, *”Well, hello…”*
Once, he even mused about staying. *”Maybe I’ll just… live here.”* My eyes flickered—bright, then guarded. *”Do as you like.”*
Goodbyes were agony. He’d reach the gate, stop, turn back for one last kiss. Then hesitate again.
He regretted meeting me so late. Loved that he’d met me at all.
I’d pour tea into a tall mug, slice the pie, and sit across from him. No grand passion—just quiet love, scented with mint and strawberry jam. Or raspberry. Or orange marmalade. And talks that lasted till dawn. The curve of my hip against his. My drowsy smile. The sound of my breath through the phone, bridging miles and satellites.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Called from the road, as usual. Turned off his mobile, turned up the radio. Never heard the crash.
I’ll never know he was coming to stay forever.
He’ll never know his daughter has his piercing blue eyes.
