Chapter 173 A Tentative Step
Fred sat at his small desk near the window, the evening sun spilling across the wooden surface.
The golden light made the dust in the air shimmer, reminding him of the quiet mornings he and Anabelle once shared.
He had been staring at his phone for almost an hour, the screen glowing softly, waiting for words that wouldn’t come.
He scrolled through social media again. Her face appeared everywhere — magazine covers, award photos, interviews, charity events. The caption on one of the posts read, “Anabelle Grey, redefining modern luxury for the world.”
Fred smiled faintly. “You’ve really done it, haven’t you?” he murmured.
Still, beneath his smile, there was a strange ache. The woman he had once known — the one who laughed while painting her own furniture, who burned toast every morning — seemed far away now.
She lived in glass buildings and flew in private jets. He lived in a quiet suburb, fixing clocks and growing roses in his backyard.
He put his phone down and leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just one message,” he whispered to himself. “It’s not that hard.”
But it was hard. Because the last time he had written to her, months ago, she hadn’t replied. He told himself she was busy, but part of him feared she had moved past him — past their world.
He got up and walked around the room. His small apartment was neat, almost too neat. A framed picture of Anabelle stood on a shelf — the two of them from years ago, smiling in front of an unfinished mural she’d painted.
He picked up the picture and sighed. “You used to hate taking photos,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over her face. “Now you can’t walk two steps without someone taking one of you.”
His phone buzzed suddenly — a news alert. He looked down. “Anabelle Grey wins Global Designer of the Year.”
Fred’s heart swelled with pride. “You deserve it,” he whispered. And then, as if something inside him clicked, he sat back down and opened his messages.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Finally, he wrote:
> Congratulations, Anabelle. I saw the news. You’ve come so far, and I’m proud of you. I still remember that old studio — the one with the leaky roof and the smell of turpentine. Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?
He read it twice, then hesitated. Should he add more? Should he ask her how she was? No — that would sound needy. He didn’t want to sound needy.
He deleted the last line, leaving the message simple. Thoughtful. Quiet. Just like him.
But his thumb froze over the send button. What if she didn’t reply again? What if his message got lost among thousands of others?
He set the phone down again and stood, pacing. “Come on, Fred,” he muttered. “It’s just a message.”
He thought back to the last time he had seen her — standing in the rain, suitcase in hand, saying she needed to chase something bigger. He had told her he understood, but he hadn’t, not really. He only understood now, seeing her name echo across continents.
His phone buzzed again — another alert. This time it was a video interview. Anabelle, graceful and confident, was talking about her journey. Fred turned up the volume slightly.
“I’ve been blessed,” she was saying. “But I will never forget where I started. Every wall I designed, every room I built — they all came from those early days. From people who believed in me when I had nothing.”
Fred smiled. People who believed in me. Maybe, just maybe, she still remembered him.
He sat again, staring at the message on his phone. His heart pounded. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pressed send.
The small “sent” mark appeared at the bottom of the screen. Fred leaned back in his chair, exhaling shakily. “There,” he whispered. “It’s done.”
He stared at the phone for a few minutes, waiting for the small “typing” bubble that never appeared. He laughed softly to himself. “What did you expect? A miracle?”
The night deepened. The city outside was quiet. Fred made himself tea, then walked to his small balcony. The air was cool, filled with the smell of rain. He sipped slowly, his mind still on her.
Across the world, Anabelle was at a gala in Paris, smiling for cameras, unaware of the quiet message waiting in her inbox.
But Fred didn’t know that. He only knew that he had finally reached out, that he had taken a small step toward something he had long buried.
He returned inside, checked his phone again — no reply. He smiled anyway.
Hours later, he fell asleep on the couch, the phone still in his hand.
The next morning, sunlight spilled into the room. Birds chirped outside. Fred stirred, blinked against the light, and reached for his phone out of habit.
No reply. Just silence.
He sighed, sitting up. “It’s fine,” he told himself. “She’s busy.”
Still, as he made his coffee, he found himself glancing at the phone every few minutes. He even took it with him to the garden, pretending to check the weather, though he was really hoping for a message.
He watered the roses slowly, talking to them the way he always did. “She’d like these,” he said softly. “Maybe I’ll send her a picture next time.”
Inside, his phone buzzed. His heart jumped. He dropped the watering can and rushed in, nearly slipping on the wet floor.
He grabbed the phone — but it wasn’t her. Just an ad. He laughed to himself, shaking his head. “Pathetic,” he muttered, but the smile stayed.
He sat on the couch again, scrolling through her pictures one more time. In each one, she looked happy — radiant, confident, alive.
“Maybe that’s enough,” he whispered. “Just knowing she’s okay.”
Outside, the rain began again, soft against the windows. Fred leaned back, closed his eyes, and listened.
Then, quietly, the phone buzzed again. One new message.
His heart stopped. He opened it — and there it was.
> Thank you, Fred. I remember the studio. I remember everything.
A slow smile spread across his face, warm and full. The rain kept falling, but inside, something began to bloom again.
Fred sat back, looking at the message, and whispered, “Maybe this is the start.”
The clock ticked softly beside him, each second steady and calm, as the world outside moved on.