"Thank you," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "Really. Thank you so much. Thank you for caring about their story."
"We thank you," Isabella says, standing up next to me, turning into the crowd. "For those who got the golden pass, Emma is ready to sign your book tonight!"
People start lining up along the aisles, faces blurring into a dizzy carousel of kindness, quick stories, and handshakes. I'm high a on fourth coffee and my hand throbs, but I push through because this once used to be my dream.
And then my brain pauses.
Everything does.
The chatter dulls, the flash of cameras fades into a slowstrobe. The girl in front of me is still talking, lips moving, but I can't hear a word.
My pulse finds its echo in the room.
I feelhim. Ben is here.
I keep my head down, my hand signing another name, then another, and another.
Then that unmistakable hand slides his book across the table.
He opens the cover, and inside is a white envelope.
For a second, I wonder if this is a dream. It can't be... But if it is, I hope I never wake up.
"Usually it's the author who writes inside the book," I say, aiming for casual, and failing spectacularly because my voice shakes.
My thumb traces the corner of the envelope, but his hand lands over mine. Just a touch, but enough for my body to remember what it once felt to be someone's everything.
His fingers brush the diamond bracelet he once fastened around my wrist—the infinity charm trembling between us.
"The note's for later," he says softly. "I would love your signature, though."
"Oh. Okay," I whisper and make the mistake of looking up.
It's him... it's really him...
He’s a bit broader now, and he looks older—not by years, but by something else.
Still, he carries the same bronze skin that never needed sunlight to glow.
A boy I once knew and a man I still love. My beautifulcontradiction, standing right in front of me.
Somehow, my hand keeps moving, pen to paper, though my gaze refuses to leave him.
"You weren't in the front row," I tell him.
A broken smile ghosts across his mouth. "I didn't want to distract you."
Someone behind him clears their throat, but I don't care.
"Congratulations, Emma," Ben says proudly, and closes the book. "Can't believe you once drooled on my pillow."
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the dark outside.
"Emma?" Alex, my assistant, speaks behind me.
When I turn to her, she looks puzzled.
"Should we give you a minute? Do you want me to get you water or something?"
