Crumbled & Free

She hadn’t planned to hold on to it that long —

a simple packaged cookie taken as a quiet memento

after their train out of Montreal broke down for eight hours.

That day had been unexpected magic.

Strangers at first, but the way they talked and laughed

as time melted around them,

she found herself resting her head on his shoulder

without even realizing it.

And in that rare stillness, she felt something unnameable —

like freedom wrapped in safety.

Home and the adventure of the unknown, perfectly balanced.

She kept the cookie,

tucked it into her coat pocket as the train finally moved again.

It traveled with her

back to her home province. She was crumbles bond together by the power of love the moment he kissed her goodbye at the metro.

She stood with her luggage and plane ticket feeling she was heading the wrong way —

through months of trying to build a life that looked right,

a life that felt big enough to make sense for leaving such a love behind — it felt all wrong.

By January she knew not to struggle against the tide.

She let it all go.

The house. The shoulds.

Even the version of herself she thought she had to be.

Montreal called her back —

and when she returned, her life began to bloom.

Still, the cookie remained tucked in her craft box.

A quiet thread that had stitched her through a journey of loss, hope,

and the slow becoming of who she really was.

Then, she decided to break the silence.

To find out what was real.

To pierce the veil of illusion —

when you rest in comfort instead of curiosity.

She arranged a road trip with her friend Jen,

and asked her to drop her off to see him —

to give him a gift he may never forget.

She told Jen, "I’ll text you if I need ten minutes or two hours.

This may be the biggest part of my story you’re playing a key part in."

They met outside the old café on Ancre Chemin — Anchor Way.

He looked the same, maybe a little more here —

like life had carved out space for something softer.

She didn’t explain much.

Just handed him the canvas bag —

soup she had made, still warm in two jars.

No mention of the note tucked beneath the cloth napkin.

No reference to the cookie wrapped at the bottom.

She didn’t need to hold on to it anymore.

“Walk with me?” she asked.

He nodded, and they did.

She texted Jen: "Let’s reconnect in a couple hours. THANK YOU."

This was a moment she had been building courage and peace to step into.

Her friend knew.

The city moved around them as they talked and listened,

yet allowed the silences to sink in too.

For those next hours, time folded again.

"Honestly, I felt a little scared to come here today.

You could’ve just walked away or ignored me,

and that loss — in person —

if you had decided to stay closed, would really hurt.

But I understand the risk to stay open.

And you are worth it. And so am I.

I don't aim for perfect. I don't always feel calm.

But I do trust this —"

she placed her hand on her heart —

"the quiet heart, not the story I make up when I’m afraid.

Right now, I feel my own peace, my own sense of home.

And that expands around you when we’re connected to our hearts

and practicing acceptance — so we’re really here and now."

"I feel a passion to risk being seen as imperfect because I slipped into a pattern last time we saw each other, I really wanted to be seen by you but I wasn't willing to be vulnerable at times when it mattered.

And I really am a work in progress. But I lean in.

I’ll always choose to grow.

I do it because it lets me sleep at night —

but also because it’s how I love."

"I want to apologize.

I let fear take the wheel at times.

I judged you. I feared you’d shut me out.

And I didn’t know how to ask you what you were thinking or feeling,

I misunderstood that your silence might’ve been you trying to regulate not that you didnt love me.

I missed that you were showing me love in your own ways.

I’m learning. And I want to own my part in any hurt I caused.

Fear shows me where I need to grow.

And I knew I respected you — adored you —

but I didn’t know you'd be my teacher in this way.

I hope you can forgive me.

And I hope you remember how free you are with me. since we met but that it realy just comes down to being honest."

She invited him into something simple, sacred:

"Hey, let’s create a day," she said.

"Nothing fancy. Just play — anything we feel like doing.

And at some point — if you want —

you can say all the things you never said.

I’ll listen with my whole heart.

And if it ever feels too much,

you can rest your head on my shoulder. Your turn.

You’re safe with me. I won’t judge. I want to hear your heart. I always do and I always will."

"I’ll check in in a couple days.

Feel it out. If you want this, I’m here."

He smiled — slowly at first, then all at once.

Something in him softened.

They wandered, laughed,

made up new rules for old games.

Talked about life in poetry instead of plans.

And at one point, he turned to her with a wink: "As-tu apporté les clés ?"

Did you bring the keys?

She paused — a little stunned.

Not house keys — but the four phrases of nonviolent communication.

The ones she once shared with him.

What is the meaning I am making here, what am I feeling, what is that feeling helping me see I need and what is the request to help him meet that need.

He remembered.

She nodded, mystified. He wanted her to listen to him as she had asked him to share months ago.

He shared everything he hadn’t said:

how he felt alone when his cat died,

when she had flown home,

and how he doubted she loved him.

His face was lighter as he let all the weight off.

She hugged him — knowing that in this moment,

words weren’t enough. But touch would be.

She knew his soul.

And she knew the journey of communication was something

she wanted to walk with him.

Later, after they parted,

he sat on the steps, not ready to change the scene just yet.

He looked through the bag she’d given him.

Opened the napkin to find the cookie —

still perfectly wrapped, like it had waited for this day too.

And a folded note:

You once said you didn’t believe in signs.

But this cookie survived a lot.

Maybe we did too.

Thank you for the shoulder that day —

I didn’t know I could feel that at home with a man, and free.

This time, if it’s right, you can lean too.

No pressure. Just a door left slightly open.

Soup is my specialty — Seafood Chowder.

My number’s on the back.

— A.

He smiled to himself —

not as someone who had found a conclusion,

but as someone standing at the edge of a page,

finally ready to write the next part —

trusting not with his fear mind,

but with his quiet and wise heart that found it trusted her.