I didn't go back to the gallery after that evening. The weight of everything hung too heavily on my shoulders—Evan's words, Richard's silence, and the ache that had begun to live somewhere deep in my chest, unnameable but constant.
Days passed. Richard didn't bring up Evan again, not even once. It wasn't peace. It was silence masquerading as peace.
I started waking up early again, slipping out of the room before Richard stirred. Sometimes I found myself at the window, coffee in hand, watching the city wake up. It felt like everyone else had figured something out I hadn't. Like they were moving forward and I was still here, stuck in something I couldn't untangle.
The morning sunlight filtered in pale and sleepy when I heard a soft knock on the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. I padded to the entrance in socks, heart picking up speed—not from fear, but from an odd sense of knowing.
It was Layla.
She stood there with a small duffel slung over her shoulder, eyes rimmed in red but burning with the quiet stubbornness I recognized in the mirror.
"I left," she said simply.
I stared at her. "You… what?"
"Packed my things. Told Aunt I wasn't coming back. I'm staying with Aaliya for now, but I needed to see you."
"Come in," I breathed, pulling the door wider.
Once inside, she collapsed on the sofa like she'd been carrying bricks. Her words poured out in a mess of anger and sadness and sheer exhaustion.
"She never cared. Not really. She only started acting like a parent when I stopped asking her to be one. You always protected me from it, but now that you're not there every day—she's worse. I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't live like that."
I wrapped my arms around her. We didn't speak for a long while. Her head rested against my shoulder like it had when we were little, and the silence felt less lonely with her in it.
When she finally fell asleep curled on the couch, I tucked a blanket over her and stood quietly, watching her chest rise and fall. She looked so young. So tired. I'd been too caught up in my own storm to realize she was drowning too.
That night, Richard didn't ask why my sister was here. He nodded once, understanding in his eyes. But we still didn't talk about anything real.
The next day, I went to the studio.
My canvas was dry, untouched since the night of the gallery. I sat before it, brushes idle, unable to summon what I once did. The joy of color felt distant, almost unreachable. But then, my hand moved—uncertain, then steady. I didn't think about what I was painting. I just… painted.
When I stepped back, I saw it. A woman standing on the edge of a balcony, city lights behind her and a single hand pressed over her heart. Her expression unreadable. Beautiful, but distant. Alone, even with the world around her.
"Still painting like your soul's on fire," came a familiar voice from behind.
Evan.
I turned slowly. He leaned against the doorway, not smiling but not apologetic either. His presence was quieter this time. Less like a storm, more like a memory I hadn't fully let go of no matter how much I tried.
"I shouldn't be here," he said, then added, "but I couldn't leave without seeing you again."
"I thought you already saw enough."
He laughed, hollow and low. "Apparently not."
We stared at each other for a long time. He didn't move forward. I didn't ask him to. There was something fragile in the space between us. Something we both knew we couldn't walk through anymore.
"Is this your final goodbye?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied, honest. "Maybe this is just me… letting go."
I exhaled slowly. "Then let go, Evan."
He nodded once, stepped back, and left. And this time, I didn't follow. I just stared at the manuscript he let for me.
That evening, I returned home to find Richard at the piano. I paused in the hallway, just watching him. His fingers moved slowly, without a melody, just keys pressed at random. Like he wasn't playing music—just touching sound to remind himself it was still there.
"I thought you hadn't played in years," I said softly, walking in.
He didn't look up. "I hadn't. Until you...."
I swallowed. "Why now?"
He finally turned toward me. "Because if I don't do something, Lara, I'll lose you."
The truth of it hung in the air like smoke. My eyes stung. "Then talk to me."
So he did.
Not everything. Not the entire map of his scars. But enough. Enough to know he was trying. That the silence we were drowning in didn't mean he didn't care. It meant he didn't know how to reach for me without setting something on fire.
"Don't walk away from me," he said. "Not yet."
"I'm still here," I whispered. "But I need you to be here too. Not just in the same room. I need you."
He stood and crossed the distance between us. "Then let's start now."
I didn't pull away when his hand reached mine. And I didn't look back when the silence between us began to break.