Amara didn't reply to Zayn's message. She read it over and over again until the words lost their shape. "I'm sorry." It hung in the air like an unfinished sentence, a breath waiting to be exhaled. But she didn't know what he was sorry for. For leaving? For refusing to love her? For making her hope?
By morning, her heart was heavier, not lighter. Sleep had come in brief patches, and her mind was exhausted from the spinning. She stepped into the bathroom, ran cold water across her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't know how much longer she could live like this—aching in silence, waiting for a man who didn't know if he wanted her.
Zayn had left before she came downstairs. His absence no longer surprised her. But it still stung.
She forced herself to eat a small breakfast, even though food tasted like cardboard. Naomi had sent another text.
"You're coming to the art gala tonight. I'm not asking. I'm informing."
Amara let out a weak laugh. Trust Naomi to push her back into the world when all she wanted was to curl into herself. Still, the invitation felt like a lifeline.
She spent the afternoon working in her studio, finishing the painting she had started. It was chaotic and beautiful, a swirl of fire and water. It was how she felt inside—torn between hope and surrender.
By evening, she changed into a deep green silk gown Naomi had given her months ago. The dress hugged her frame softly, the color bringing out the warmth in her skin. For the first time in days, she looked like herself. Not a bride, not a broken promise—just Amara.
Naomi whistled when she saw her. "Now that's how you slay heartbreak."
"You're impossible," Amara murmured, but she smiled for real this time.
The gala was held in a restored colonial mansion downtown. The venue buzzed with conversations, champagne glasses clinked against each other, and violins played in the background. Amara had missed this world—the scent of oil paint, polished wood, and imagination.
They drifted between exhibits, occasionally stopping to admire a piece or greet familiar faces. Amara was halfway through explaining the symbolism in a mixed-media canvas when Naomi leaned closer.
"Don't panic. He just walked in."
Her heart dropped. "Who?"
Naomi didn't need to say it. She already knew. Zayn.
Amara turned slowly, her eyes finding him near the entrance. He wore a crisp black suit, no tie, his shirt open slightly at the collar. His eyes scanned the room with that calm intensity he always carried, but when they met hers, they stopped. Held.
He began walking toward her.
Amara's breath caught. She turned to Naomi. "I'm not ready."
Naomi squeezed her hand. "Then you don't have to be. But I'll be right here."
Amara stepped away from the crowd, retreating to the outdoor terrace. The air was cool, the city lights twinkling in the distance. A soft breeze tugged at her hair.
She heard the door open behind her.
"You look… stunning," Zayn said quietly.
She didn't turn around. "You came."
"I wanted to see your work."
"That's not the only reason."
He exhaled slowly. "No, it's not."
She finally turned to face him. "Then say what you really came to say."
There was silence between them. A hesitation. Then he stepped closer.
"I meant it when I said I was sorry."
"For what?" she asked, voice steady.
"For shutting you out. For pretending I didn't feel anything when every second around you made me feel more than I wanted to admit. For being a coward."
Her breath hitched.
"I don't know how to love like other people do, Amara. My parents… they made marriage look like a battlefield. I spent my whole life thinking love was just a trap. That it would destroy me."
"And now?" she whispered.
He moved even closer. "Now I'm starting to believe love isn't what ruined them. It was fear. Fear of vulnerability. Of giving too much."
He paused, his eyes searching hers. "I'm afraid, too. But I'm more afraid of losing you."
Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. "Zayn… I don't want a half-love. I can't live like we're strangers in the same house."
He reached for her hand, his touch trembling. "Then let me learn. I can't promise perfection. But I can promise honesty. I can try."
Her heart swelled. He wasn't giving her a grand speech. He was offering something more rare. Humility. Effort.
She squeezed his hand gently. "Trying is enough. For now."
He let out a breath like he'd been holding it for years. "Can I take you home?"
She smiled softly. "Only if you promise not to disappear in the morning."
"I'll make breakfast," he said with a small grin.
They returned to the gala for a little while, but the night had already changed. The tension between them had softened into something warmer. Realer.
Back at the house, the silence was different. Not cold. Not distant. Just quiet and full of possibility.
They didn't go straight to bed. Instead, they sat on the couch in the dim light, sipping tea. Amara curled her feet beneath her as she listened to Zayn talk about his childhood for the first time. He told her how his mother used to hum in the kitchen, how his father's mood could turn a room icy in seconds, how he'd promised himself at age thirteen that he would never let anyone get close enough to hurt him.
And then she told him about her father's paintings. About how she used to sit and watch him create whole worlds on canvas, how she missed him every single day. They were like two people slowly unwrapping themselves, layer by layer.
It was nearly 2 a.m. when Zayn reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Come to bed."
She hesitated, then nodded.
They lay side by side, not touching at first. Just breathing the same air. The distance between them was still there—but it was shrinking.
He turned on his side to face her. "Goodnight, Amara."
"Goodnight, Zayn."
And this time, when she closed her eyes, sleep came easily.