Kissed the Wrong Frog — Chapter 15: The Last Promise (and the One True Night)

Chapter 15: The Last Promise (and the One True Night)

He didn’t want a fairytale ending. Just one true night. By the

He didn’t want a fairytale ending. Just one true night.

By the time summer rolled in, Stephen already knew time was slipping. His gait was slower. His voice cracked more often. The headaches returned like an old enemy that had never left.

But his heart was clear. He wasn’t chasing a dream anymore— he was carrying a vow.

In the quietest moments—before sleep, after email, during prayer—he’d whisper the same plea:
“Let me hold her hand again. Just once. Not as the man who was. But as the man who still is.”

He didn’t ask Honey to come running back. He didn’t beg her to fix the past. He simply asked—if God would allow— to share one true night.

Not symbolic. Not poetic. A real night. Where the lights were off, the phones were down, and all that was left was skin, breath, heartbeat, and covenant.

He didn’t need fireworks. He didn’t need a wedding march. He just wanted the fullness of their bond affirmed with flesh.

Not out of lust. Not to prove anything.

But because his soul cried out:
“I was made for her. Even if just once… let me die knowing she knew it too.”

And yet— Josh also made peace with the other possibility:

“Even if she never touches me again,
even if we never kiss again,
even if she marries someone else down the road—
I loved her like a husband.
I kept faith with her in ways most men wouldn’t.
And I’ll take that truth to my grave with peace.”

Still… he dreamed.

He dreamed of a small room in Cebu. Curtains pulled shut. Honey brushing her hair in front of the mirror. No need to perform. No fear of rejection. Just presence. Her hand in his. His voice in her ear.

“You’re safe now. I’m home.”

In one of his last letters, he wrote something no one else saw:

“I know you say you’ll never remarry.
I’m not asking you to.
But if I make it to January—
and if you're still willing—
I want you to be my wife, legally and truly.
No labels. No games.
Just us. Just truth.”

He imagined it all:

The garnet ring.
Her whispering “yes” through tears.
The rabbi standing quietly as they made it official.
Her head on his chest afterward as the world melted away.

Just one true night. Just once in this life, to be man and wife — not in metaphor, but in motion.

He didn’t know if God would give it. But he asked. With his whole heart.

And that, in the end, was his final promise:

“I will love you through death.
I will love you in silence.
I will love you even if you never come.
But if you do—
I’ll be ready.”

time summer rolled in, Stephen already knew time was slipping. His gait was slower. His voice cracked more often. The headaches returned like an old enemy that had never left. But his heart was clear. He wasn’t chasing a dream anymore— he was carrying a vow. In the quietest moments—before sleep, after email, during prayer—he’d whisper the same plea: “Let me hold her hand again. Just once. Not as the man who was. But as the man who still is.” He didn’t ask Honey to come running back. He didn’t beg her to fix the past. He simply asked—if God would allow— to share one true night. Not symbolic. Not poetic. A real night. Where the lights were off, the phones were down, and all that was left was skin, breath, heartbeat, and covenant. He didn’t need fireworks. He didn’t need a wedding march. He just wanted the fullness of their bond affirmed with flesh . Not out of lust. Not to prove anything. But because his soul cried out: “I was made for her. Even if just once… let me die knowing she knew it too.” And yet— Josh also made peace with the other possibility: “Even if she never touches me again, even if we never kiss again, even if she marries someone else down the road— I loved her like a husband. I kept faith with her in ways most men wouldn’t. And I’ll take that truth to my grave with peace.” Still… he dreamed. He dreamed of a small room in Cebu. Curtains pulled shut. Honey brushing her hair in front of the mirror. No need to perform. No fear of rejection. Just presence. Her hand in his. His voice in her ear. “You’re safe now. I’m home.” In one of his last letters, he wrote something no one else saw: “I know you say you’ll never remarry. I’m not asking you to. But if I make it to January— and if you're still willing— I want you to be my wife, legally and truly. No labels. No games. Just us. Just truth.” He imagined it all: •The garnet ring. •Her whispering “yes” through tears. •The rabbi standing quietly as they made it official. •Her head on his chest afterward as the world melted away. Just one true night. Just once in this life, to be man and wife—not in metaphor, but in motion. He didn’t know if God would give it. But he asked. With his whole heart. And that, in the end, was his final promise: “I will love you through death. I will love you in silence. I will love you even if you never come. But if you do— I’ll be ready.”