The door clicks shut behind me.
I press my back against it.
Eyes closed.
Breath held.
Heart racing like I ran home, not walked.
He didn't try to kiss me.
Didn't lean in.
Didn't ask what now?
He just said what he meant…
And left.
The right way.
And that—that small, quiet exit—is exactly what's unraveling me now.
I walk further into the studio, past the sketches and scattered fabric and the table that still holds the coffee mug from that morning he stayed.
Three days ago.
Three days, and somehow it still lingers.
His presence.
His voice.
His restraint.
He's different. Not perfect. Not fully forgiven. But different.
And that is what scares me.
Because I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to slam the door.
Delete the texts.
Say it was over and mean it.
But I didn't.
Because deep down… I never stopped wanting him.
---
I sit at my sewing table, turn on the little lamp, and pull a sketch toward me.
The one I started before he came to the studio the first time.
It's unfinished.
Like us.
I stare at the lines. The silhouette of a gown. Elegant, controlled, deliberate.
And then I add something.
A twist in the neckline.
A little chaos.
Because something about him… about this... is rewriting me in ways I didn't expect.
And for the first time in days, my fingers move freely.
The pencil glides.
The lines make sense.
Not because I'm inspired by romance or longing or some fairytale happy ending.
But because there's truth in what he said.
He didn't ask me to trust him again.
He said he'd earn it.
And honestly… that's more terrifying than an apology.
Because it means he's not letting go this time.
---
I push the sketch away.
Turn off the lamp.
And sit in the dark for a while.
Let myself feel everything I've been avoiding.
The ache.
The hope.
The fear that maybe—just maybe—I'm not as guarded as I pretend to be.
And the quiet, burning realization:
I wanted him to stay.