Ask Me to Stay

This story is by Tilda Wolf and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Arthur stood in Amelia’s kitchen, holding up the coffee pot with a smile that made her sixty-five-year-old heart skip like it did when they were eighteen.

She leaned against the worktop, watching him pour black coffee for himself, hot chocolate for her, topped with mini marshmallows just the way she liked.

Wrapping her hands around the cup, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

The rich aroma of coffee and chocolate brought back mornings with her mother—the ritual they’d shared until she passed away. Amelia had thought she understood loneliness during those years of caregiving, when her mother’s eyes were open, but she was somewhere far away. But she’d been lonely long before that, ever since the day she let Arthur sail away without telling him she loved him.

He’d come back to the island six months ago, just visiting, but he couldn’t leave when she needed help with repairs. Six months, and now the work was done. She exhaled and opened her eyes. He’d been watching her.

She loved his deep, gravelly voice, but not what he said, “A boat’s leaving in the morning.”

History was repeating. He’d be gone by morning, unless she found the courage to speak. The silence stretched too long.

He looked away and tapped a wooden cigar box on the counter. “This was under a loose floorboard in Sofia’s room.”

Her mother’s room. Why would a box of cigars be hidden there? She stepped a little closer. “Grandad loved cigars.”

“I remember.”

“Is it weird that I want to sniff one?”

“No, I get it.”

They settled onto the sofa, setting their cups on the coffee table. Arthur handed over the box, then sat close enough that their shoulders touched.

She lifted the lid.

No cigars. Just a bundle of numbered envelopes held together with red ribbon.

She hesitated.

He nudged her shoulder—something he hadn’t done since they were children. His gentle encouragement filled her with warmth. She squeezed his hand, then opened the first envelope. Her smile faded when she saw her mother’s handwriting.

Amelia, if you’re reading this, I’ve finally gone to wherever it is we go. I wanted to tell you; so many times. I’m sorry I never could.

They read in silence. Arthur’s shoulder pressed against hers, his presence the only thing keeping her steady.

Sofia’s engagement to Walter Hart had been arranged by her parents, but she was in love with a woman. Renée St. Clair.

Amelia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Renée.” Her voice broke. “That was Mum’s last word…”

Arthur’s arm came around her shoulder.

“I didn’t understand.” Her gaze was fixed on the elegant handwriting. “She was trying to tell me.”

“Oh, Mela.” He pulled her into the warmest embrace she’d had for years. But she remained frozen, holding that page. After a moment, he drew back. “Do you want to keep reading?”

She nodded.

When Renée’s parents discovered the affair, they sent their daughter to live overseas.

Left heartbroken and trapped by expectation, Sofia married Walter.

The final envelope held two photographs. The first was of Sofia and Renée at a café, silver-haired, coffee cups between them.

On the reverse was written:

Our meeting was brief, but it was enough time to say goodbye. To tell each other that we were loved. That what we felt was real. That it mattered.

The second photograph was of Amelia in her best dress, Arthur in his suit, holding each other as they danced—forty-seven years ago. The night before his family left for good.

She sank against him, and he rubbed her shoulder. Neither spoke as she slowly turned the photo over.

The only regret I truly have is all the time I wasted being afraid. Don’t do that. Don’t bury your truth. Don’t waste your years.

Arthur cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a tear. She leaned into his touch. His eyes were the same, the most stunning blue she’d ever seen.

“We never finished that dance.” He offered his hand.

She took it. “There isn’t any music.”

He led her to a clear space in the living room and drew her close, recreating their stance from the photograph. “Close your eyes.”

She did.

“Can you hear our song?”

“Yes.”

He spun her, and she opened her eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he said—the same words as before.

Was it wrong to still get butterflies?

“I waited at the dock.”

Her heart clenched. She’d been torn between duty and desire that day. “By the time I got there, the boat had departed.”

His arms tightened around her. “I never got a chance to tell you—”

“Take me with you.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

Arthur’s face transformed. His smile was so wide, so full of joy, that his eyes crinkled nearly shut. He looked at her with such tenderness, such certainty. “Ask me to stay.”

Her breath caught. She’d always wondered what would have happened if they’d finished their dance. If she’d made it on time. “Stay with me.”

Their lips were almost touching.

“I love you, Bear,” she whispered. “I always have.”

“I love you too, Mela. I never stopped.”

They sealed their confession with a kiss, and decades of longing melted away. This time, there were no farewells, only new beginnings.