I told myself I'd forget.
I told myself that if I just kept showing up—kept waking up early, pouring myself into fabric, lines, textures, tones—I'd stop hearing his voice in my head. I thought if I worked hard enough, I'd be too tired to care.
But every sketch I finish still feels hollow.
I'm sitting at my desk with a dozen rough drafts pinned to the wall, sunlight spilling across my sketchbook, when the door opens.
It's supposed to be locked.
I look up, irritation already forming in my throat—until I see him.
Kairo.
Standing in my doorway like a ghost that never left.
He doesn't speak. Just closes the door quietly behind him and steps inside, dressed in black like always—tailored, sharp, perfect in that effortless way that used to make me ache. Still does.
My fingers tighten around my pencil.
'What are you doing here?' I ask, voice low.
He doesn't answer right away. Just takes a slow look around my space—my table, my walls, my work.
'So this is what you've been hiding in.'
'You didn't answer my question.'
He turns toward me then, eyes unreadable.
'Elijah told me you were serious about your designs. I wanted to see it myself.'
'You could've called.'
'Would you have picked up?'
I say nothing.
Because no, I wouldn't have. Not after what he did. Not after how he left me—standing there in my own silence like a fool, like a girl who got it all wrong.
He walks a little closer, stopping at the edge of my desk.
His eyes drift down to the open sketchbook. My latest design—a draped backless dress, delicate and feminine, with soft folds and raw edges. He studies it too long.
'This one's different,' he says.
'They all are.'
'It feels personal.'
'It's not.'
I lie so fast I almost believe myself.
He nods slowly, like he knows I'm lying. Like he knows the dress was born in the space between our last glance and his absence.
'Lyra.'
'Don't,' I say, sharper now. 'Don't say my name like that. Like it means something to you.'
He stays quiet.
That silence feels louder than any argument we could've had. And it hurts more.
'I don't need you here,' I add, turning back to my sketchbook. 'You made your choice. You walked away. Now stay gone.'
'You don't mean that.'
'You think you know me so well, don't you?'
He leans forward, both palms flat on the edge of the table.
'I know what you sound like when you want something you're not allowed to have.'
I hate the way my pulse responds. Hate the way his nearness still affects me, how his voice curls around my spine like heat.
I look up at him—finally, directly.
'Then maybe you should ask yourself why you're the one who keeps showing up.'
We stare at each other in silence. The moment holds too much. It feels like if either of us says one more thing, something will snap.
Then his phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, jaw tightening, then straightens up.
'Elijah's waiting. I should go.'
Of course.
I nod and don't look up again. Not even when I hear the door open. Not even when it shuts behind him.
But once he's gone, I close the sketchbook and press my hands against my chest.
Because everything hurts all over again.