The Apple of My Eye

The room was filled with the hum of quiet conversations, the clink of glasses, and the soft murmur of a jazz melody drifting through the air. She hadn’t meant to end up here — not at this café, not on this night. But fate had drawn her into this very moment.

Francesca stood just inside the entrance, her fingers resting lightly on the back of a wooden chair. The air was thick with scent: a trace of black tea curling into something deeper — cedarwood, musk. A scent she had once worn for him. At the piano, Anthony glanced up. It had been years, but recognition was instant, like the first bite of something once beloved.

Francesca's face was a mask of astonishment, her eyes wide and her expression blank, while tears slowly gathered in the corners. She couldn’t look away; her gaze was locked on him as she grasped her children's hands, as if she were frozen in that moment. Anthony watched her, understanding flashing across his face.

Anthony: "For old times' sake."

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even directed at her. It was a quiet declaration, spoken only through the keys. And so, Anthony began playing a song on the piano — not a grand overture, nor the crashing weight of regret, but a song they had once loved, a gentle retelling of a story that had once been theirs.

In the soft glow of candlelight, Francesca let herself drift. How different would the world have been if they had stayed together? The music painted a world that never was: crisp autumn afternoons, golden apples plucked from an orchard, the warmth of tea shared in porcelain cups. In this imagined past, there was no choice to be made, no roads diverging. There was only them, wrapped in the scent of something fresh yet warm, something fleeting, something that lingered but could never be grasped.

And then, the song reached its final note. The room exhaled with it.

She met his eyes once more. A smile — not of longing, not of sadness, but of gratitude. They had lived their story, even if it hadn’t been the one they dreamed of. And in that moment, in that lingering scent, in that final note, their epilogue was written.

She turned, took her children’s hands, and walked away.

Sometimes, certain things are just not meant to be. Anthony was the love of my life. Francesca was the apple of my eye.