Emma moved into a small sublet in a quiet part of the city—nothing more than a studio with creaky floors and a view of the alley, but it was hers. Her solitude was stark, yet strangely peaceful. Every object had its place. Every silence had meaning.
For the first time in years, she wasn't defined by a relationship.
She didn't contact Lily right away. She needed space to understand what she truly felt—without the confusion of guilt or the comfort of someone else's presence.
She spent her days writing again, something she had abandoned long ago. Mornings were filled with coffee and half-formed stories; evenings with long walks and reflection.
Meanwhile, Lily waited.
She didn't push. She didn't ask questions. She sent little messages—funny photos, links to songs Emma once loved, the occasional, "Thinking of you."
And Emma felt those messages like echoes in a quiet room.
One night, after rewriting the same sentence for an hour, Emma put down her pen and stared at the ceiling. Her heart, once stormy and bitter, now felt like calm water—still, but with movement beneath the surface.
She picked up her phone and dialed.
Lily answered on the second ring. "Hey."
"I've missed you," Emma said.
"I've been here," Lily replied softly. "Not waiting. Just… hoping."
"I'm not with Ethan anymore," Emma said. "But I'm not running to you, either. I need you to know that."
"I respect that."
"But I do want to see you. Not to fix things, not to rush into something—but to be honest about what we might be."
Lily was quiet, then said, "Come over. No expectations. Just… come."
Emma hesitated for only a second. "Okay."
Later that evening, Lily opened the door in sweatpants and a nervous smile. Emma stepped inside. The apartment smelled like cinnamon and home. They sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, a cautious closeness.
No declarations. No drama. Just the warmth of someone who hadn't left.
Emma didn't know what tomorrow would look like. But tonight, she wasn't hiding. And neither was Lily.