Not Waiting For You Chapter 11
After that wedding, Amira seemed to vanish from the world.
Her number became disconnected, her social accounts stopped updating, and she blocked him completely on Instagram.
Tyrone pulled every string he had, and only then learned by roundabout means that the day after the wedding ended, Amira had gone back with Joseph to his hometown in the neighboring city.
It was a place he had never once thought to understand.
He knew Amira was acting out of anger.
Back then, when they started their business and bought a home, they had chosen the city Amira liked.
So how could she be willing to go to a neighboring city now?
He immediately tracked down the new owner who had bought their marital home.
The other party refused to transfer it at first, but Tyrone named a price no one could refuse.
The paperwork went through at lightning speed.
When he held those familiar keys again and opened the door — facing an empty, echoing room and a strange smell — a sharp sense of irony struck him.
Nothing here had changed.
The layout, the view beyond the windows, even the faint marks left where photos had once been pinned to the wall.
And yet everything had changed.
He had people clean it top to bottom, then restored the furnishings little by little from memory.
He even bought back the aromatherapy she liked and lit it.
Then he took a few photos, found one of Amira’s old email addresses, and sent them over.
The postscript was only one line: “Home is still here. You can come back to live anytime.”
The message sank without a trace.
He began taking frequent “business trips” to the city where she was.
He also found out which park and market her parents often went to, engineering “chance encounters.”
Whenever Amira’s parents saw him, they could never quite hide their awkwardness and unease.
“Tyrone, you’re here again… Mira’s doing pretty well now.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry I didn’t come often enough. From now on, I’ll come more and spend time with you both.”
He carried expensive health supplements and fruit, his attitude sincere.
He played chess with Clint, Amira’s father, and listened as the old man talked about things from long ago.
He wanted to piece together Amira’s current life from a few scattered words.
Clint sighed, hesitating as if he wanted to speak and yet couldn’t.
In the end, he only patted Tyrone on the shoulder. “What’s past is past. Let it go. Don’t make things so hard on yourself.”
Making things hard on himself?
No. He was only correcting a mistake.
He stubbornly believed that if he behaved well enough, patiently enough, he could knock that door open again.
He forgot that the person behind that door had long since stopped waiting where she used to.
The real encounter with Amira happened at a corner café.
Amira sat by the window with a female friend.
Tyrone practically charged inside.
“Mira.”
Amira looked up at his voice. When she saw him, the smile on her face faded.
“Mr. Benson. What a coincidence.”
Her best friend watched him warily.
“Can we talk alone? Just five minutes.” Tyrone’s voice was rough and dry.
Amira hesitated, then nodded to her friend.
Her friend got up and moved to a seat not far away.
“You… you look like you’re doing well.” He forced the words out.
“Thank you. What do you need, Mr. Benson?”
“I… I bought our place back. Put it the way it used to be.”
He blurted out, “And Lillianna — I already fired her. Between her and me, there really was nothing. I didn’t pay attention to her little schemes before. I was stupid…”
He rambled, desperate to lay himself bare.
As if saying it all aloud could wipe the dust off the past eight years.
Amira listened quietly. Only when he finally stopped, panting as he looked at her, did she speak slowly. “Tyrone, I believe you.”
Tyrone’s eyes lit up.
But Amira went on, “I believe that nothing may have happened between you two. At least, physically.”
She paused, gazing out at the bustling street beyond the window. “But so what?”
Tyrone froze.
“What mattered was never whether you slept with Lillianna.”
Amira turned back, her eyes clear as ice as she looked at him. “What mattered was that in those eight years — in your countless choices, your rankings — I was always the one filed under ‘next time,’ ‘later,’ ‘stop making a fuss.'”
“Your secretary, your work, your pride, even your buddies’ jokes — all of it mattered more than how badly I wanted a home.”
“That time with the bouquet was the last ranking. I saw the answer.”
She gently stroked her lower belly. The gesture was tender, and yet it stabbed Tyrone…
“Tyrone, I don’t hate you. Really. You can fire a hundred secretaries and buy back ten houses, and it still has nothing to do with me.”
“I’m doing very well now. Joseph, he… he’s very good to me.”
When she mentioned her husband’s name, there was light in her eyes.
It was a light Tyrone had once believed would always belong to him, and now it scorched his eyes.
“Please, don’t disturb my life anymore, and don’t put my parents in a difficult position again. Let’s end it here.”
She stood and gave a slight nod.
Then she walked to the friend who was waiting for her, never looking back.
Tyrone didn’t step forward again.
He sat rigid in his chair.
So what?
Those words echoed in his mind over and over.
At last, they shattered every self-deceiving fantasy of making amends.
He had thought that if he made up for it materially, cleared up the misunderstanding, and put in the time, he could win her back.
Win back what?
A woman he had habitually overlooked until he lost her completely and only then realized her worth?
Or a relationship already riddled with holes?
He still didn’t give up completely, as if he had developed an addictive obsession.
He kept tabs on everything about her in secret.
Until, a few months later, from bits and pieces of information, he confirmed the news he had long expected.
Amira was pregnant!
Through someone else, he saw Amira’s Instagram.
Two photos: one was Joseph’s back as he accompanied her to a prenatal checkup.
The other was an ultrasound image, a tiny blurred shape.
The caption read: “Our baby.”
He suddenly remembered long ago, when Amira had curled up in his arms and whispered, “In the future, let’s have two babies — a daughter who looks like you, a son who looks like me, okay?”
He had been replying to work emails then and only answered with a casual “Mm,” without even lifting his head.
Now, her baby was on the way.
But the father wasn’t him.
She finally had her own home, her own child, her own happiness.
All of it had nothing to do with him anymore — not even the slightest bit.
So this was the ending.
Not thunderous revenge, not a gut-wrenching fight, not even a formal goodbye.
She merely shifted her gaze away, stepped onto another road, and left him — and his eight years with her — entirely behind.
Outside the window, the night was deep, swallowing everything.
The story that belonged to him and Amira had already written its final stroke the instant the bouquet was pulled away.
He only truly understood it now.
The end.
