Antonio's POV;
She walked right past me.
Atasha—Selene—whatever name she wore now, it didn't matter. She didn't even look at me the way she used to. No pause. No soft hesitation. Just distance. And that hurt more than I was ready to admit.
I called her name, once, twice… hoping she'd stop, smile, anything. But her voice when she did respond—polite, detached, hollow—felt like a slap. I stood there stunned, like someone had sucked the air from my lungs. She was right there, and yet... I couldn't reach her.
What changed?
I replayed everything in my head, the texts she didn't reply to, the brief moment I saw her eyes—empty of warmth. She used to melt under my gaze. Now? I felt like a stranger. Disposable.
Was she… done with me?
No. She couldn't be. Not her. Not Selene. She loved me. I knew she did.
And yet... the way she looked right through me made me wonder if I was already too late.
I couldn't take it anymore.
The way she avoided me like I was just another stranger, like everything we shared meant nothing—no. I had to talk to her. I needed answers. Closure. Something.
I found her near the gallery entrance the next day, alone, sketchbook in hand, her brows furrowed in thought. I took a breath and walked up, heart pounding harder than it should.
"Selene," I said, voice low but firm. She flinched a little, and for a moment, I saw her guard falter. But it returned just as fast.
"It's Atasha now," she replied without looking up.
I stepped closer. "I don't care what name you use—why are you pushing me away like this?"
She didn't answer.
"Did I do something?" I continued, more urgently. "Tell me. Was it something I said? Something I missed? You were warm, then suddenly ice. I don't get it. What happened to us?"
Still silence. But her hand tightened slightly around the edge of her sketchbook.
"Was I just a memory you outgrew?" I asked quietly, almost pleading now. "Or did you ever really care like you said you did?"
That made her look up—and for the first time, I saw it.
Hurt. So much of it.
But she still didn't speak.
And that silence?
It screamed louder than any words ever could.
Atasha's POV;
I didn't want to speak.
Not because I didn't have anything to say—but because if I started, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop the storm inside me. But his eyes—confused, desperate, aching—kept pulling the truth out of me.
"You ask why I'm pushing you away?" I said, my voice low but steady. "Antonio, I watched you give pieces of yourself to other girls like they meant something… like I never did."
He opened his mouth to speak, but I raised my hand. "No. Let me finish."
"I stood there, ready to forgive you, to believe that maybe—just maybe—you meant it when you said you missed me. But then I saw you… flirting with someone like you did with me. That look in your eyes that used to make me feel special? It wasn't mine anymore. It never really was, was it?"
He looked stunned, like he hadn't expected those words to sting the way they did.
"I wasn't just hurt, Antonio. I was shattered. And while you moved on and smiled at others, I was learning how to breathe again. Alone."
My voice cracked slightly, but I didn't stop.
"So no—you didn't lose me because of a name change. You lost me the moment you made me feel replaceable."
His silence after my words didn't surprise me. It was the first time I allowed myself to speak without protecting his feelings. For once, I wasn't the quiet, forgiving version of myself. I was the girl who had been left behind, and I let it show.
"You don't know what it felt like," I continued, my voice softer now but no less firm. "To go home every day pretending I was okay. To smile in front of everyone, but cry into my pillow at night—just because I couldn't stop wondering why I wasn't enough."
I looked down at the sketchbook I had gripped so tightly. The pages were filled with pieces of my pain—dresses I designed in lonely hours, shading each line like it could fix something inside me.
"I changed everything about me," I whispered. "My name, my city, my dreams... all to escape the ghost of you. And even then, I still found you everywhere—in songs, in smells, in silence."
I finally looked up again, my eyes meeting his. "So no, Antonio. I didn't outgrow you. I had to outlive the version of me that kept waiting for you to choose me."
And for the first time in so long… the tears in my eyes didn't feel like weakness.
They felt like release.