When Your Heart Found Mine

Amara Cole had mastered the art of appearing whole.

From the outside, her life in Boston looked polished, enviable even. She lived in a small but sunlit apartment overlooking a quiet street lined with maple trees. She had a respectable job as a healthcare project coordinator, a role she fought hard to earn after years of rebuilding her life from the ground up. She dressed sharply, spoke confidently, and moved through the world with a controlled grace that fooled almost everyone.

Almost.

What people didn't see was the way she paused before unlocking her apartment door, bracing herself for the silence inside. Or how she slept with one hand curled around her chest, as if guarding something fragile that might break again. They didn't see how she flinched when love appeared too easy, too warm, too real.

Amara was thirty-two and exhausted-not from failure, but from survival.

Her mornings began the same way. Alarm at 5:30 a.m. Coffee she barely tasted. A moment in the mirror where she assessed her reflection like an agreement: We'll get through today too.

She didn't hate her life. She just didn't trust it.

Loss had taught her that happiness could vanish without warning.

Five years earlier, she had been engaged, deeply and fiercely in love with Daniel Reyes-a man whose laughter filled rooms and whose promises felt unbreakable. They had planned a life together with naïve certainty. Wedding colors. Baby names. Cities they'd grow old in.

Then came the accident.

A rainy night. A missed call. A siren in the distance that never seemed close enough until it was too late.

Grief did not leave when the funeral ended. It stayed. It hollowed her out. It made her question God, love, and her own worth. It convinced her that opening her heart again would only invite more pain.

So she rebuilt herself carefully.

Brick by brick. Boundary by boundary.

By the time she moved to Boston from Chicago, Amara had become a woman who knew how to stand alone-even when her knees shook.

That Tuesday morning, she was running late.

She hurried through the subway station, coat pulled tight against the early winter wind, heels clicking against concrete as she checked her phone. Emails. Deadlines. Meetings stacked too closely together. She preferred it that way. Busy left little room for memory.