I keep telling myself it's fine.
That I'm fine.
That if I say it enough times, my body will believe it. That the tightness in my chest will fade. That the dull ache behind my eyes will go away. That the memory of Kairo standing in my studio, looking at my sketches like he knew exactly what they meant, will stop replaying in my mind every time I try to fall asleep.
But none of it fades. It just… settles.
Like dust.
Like tension waiting to rise again.
I've been showing up at the studio early. Leaving late. Drowning myself in deadlines I don't even have, pretending every hour I spend drawing, cutting, pinning, and pressing is another hour I'm moving forward. But I'm not.
I haven't been moving at all. Just orbiting him in silence.
Elijah noticed. I can tell.
He keeps checking in, asking if I'm okay. Offers to take me out to dinner, bring me into some firm event, introduce me to some guy he thinks is "stable." I smile, thank him, say I'm busy. I always am. It's easier than telling him the truth.
That the reason I can't breathe sometimes is his best friend.
That I want him in a way I can't explain. In a way I'm not supposed to.
Tonight, I decide to go out. Just to breathe. Just to pretend that I'm still the girl I used to be. Before this.
My friend Maya drags me to a gallery showing. Nothing major. Just a clean, glass-walled space in downtown with modern pieces and too many people trying to look rich. I sip cheap white wine and nod politely while she introduces me to a designer from Italy who keeps talking with his hands.
I almost feel normal.
Until I feel him.
I don't even see him at first. I feel him.
That presence. That pressure in the air. Like a shift in the atmosphere before a storm.
And then I turn—and there he is.
Kairo.
Across the room. In a black suit. Talking to someone. Laughing softly. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink. Calm. Cold. Effortless.
He doesn't see me yet.
My breath catches.
I look away quickly, pretending to admire a twisted metal sculpture on the wall. My pulse is suddenly louder than the music.
Maya leans toward me. 'You okay?'
'Fine,' I lie, swallowing too fast. 'Just a little dizzy.'
I don't know if I should leave or stay.
A few minutes later, I glance back. He's gone. Just… gone. Like he was never there.
And I tell myself it didn't matter.
That it meant nothing.
But it does.
Because I still feel him in the room—even when he's not in it.