Predictive Text Couldn't Predict Our Love

over people, places, and things, shimmering like heat haze on a su

eal of lukewarm oatmeal. Probab

ildren at the St. Jude' s Home for Children. I was Chloe Miller, and I was waiting

oo quiet, to

ace where hopeful couples browsed for children like produce. Mrs. Davies, the orp

she said, her smile not

their son, was a golden-haired boy my age with a smile that could sell toothpaste. He was laughing,

s head was brigh

kind-hearted, a life of ea

with sunny picnics and family vacations. A life w

aw the S

son, Blake, stood beside him, a mirror image of his father' s coldness but with a storm of something darker in his eyes. He was all sharp

him was stark

ly damaged, reclusive. A f

t was a dead end.

me, their smiles wide and genuine. Mr

Robert, and this is my wife

small, friend

the sun and warmth. But then, the text above Liam flickered, n

y inevitable, soul-crushing heartbreak. The Henderson family legac

rling, who was staring at the floor as if willing it to swallow him wh

you are the key to his healing. Choosing him will uncover a painful truth b

warning and grab the happiness that was right in front of me. But the text had never lied. It had warned m

ds curling into fists. This was th

faces. I looked at Liam' s easy smile. Then I

cross the room. The polished floor felt vast and empty. Every eye w

I said, my voice

s should be, widened in shock. Mr. Sterling looked down at me, his express

oney, are

e locked on Blak

, a new line of text appeared over Blake'

lished. Healing p

resignation. He looked at his son, then at me, as

ing into the silence like a stone