“You didn’t need warning,” he says, lowering the camera but not looking away from me.“That one’s perfect.”
“Oh, is it?”I arch a brow.
“When you get these developed,” he hesitates, and the softness in his voice almost undoes me.“Can I have that one?”
“You want a photo of me?”I ask, my voice not nearly as steady as I wish it were.
“I wantthatphoto of you,” he says, nodding at the camera like it’s holding something sacred.“Exactly how you looked right now.”
And fuck.
The way he's looking at me now makes my heart physically stutter, which I didn't even think was possible.
But here we are, existing in a moment that should have also been impossible.
"I missed this," he says quietly.
"Missed what?"
"You."
My heart swells with dangerous hope.
But before I can fall too far into his eyes, I force myself to turn away.
I can't do this again.
Not when so many things are still unclear.
Not when I don't even know if my heart has fully healed—but then again, does it ever?
Maybe that's the wrong question entirely.
Maybe hearts aren't meant to heal like broken bones, clean and complete and stronger than before.
Maybe we don't heal—we just get better at carrying our broken pieces, learning to move carefully so nothing else shatters, until one day we realize that being fragile doesn't mean being weak.
I walk toward one of the installations—a sculpture of intertwined metal that casts constellation shadows on the wall.
My fingers trace the air around it, careful not to touch, while I try to steady my breathing and remember all the reasons this can't happen.
I mean he’s here, talking about travelling for an international tour next year and I have no plans on leaving London.
Then there’s also our history, yes.
But also because of Luiza, who fits into his new life in ways I'm still learning to navigate.And if there's something between them, I can't let myself become another complication in his carefully reconstructed world.
I can feel the weight of his gaze on my back, and every rational thought I'm trying to hold onto seems to evaporate in the artificial starlight.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just walks over and finds his place beside me.I feel him before I fully register how close he is, it’s in the quiet shift in the air that always seems to happen when he’s close.
His shoulder brushes mine as he settles, a small, familiar contact that sends a warm, unwelcome rush through me.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
The projected starlight moves across his face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, and something in my chest tightens.It’s stupid, but my fingers actually twitch with the urge to reach out, to touch him like I used to.
The space between us feels loaded.
