The days that followed were not empty—no, emptiness would have been kinder. They were full. Full of silence that pressed on Amara like a weight. Full of Adrian's absence that lingered louder than his presence ever had.
She saw him once in the library. He didn't notice her at first; his head was bent low over a stack of papers, brows furrowed in concentration. But the moment their eyes met—he froze. For a heartbeat, she thought he would come to her. Instead, he offered a brief nod, the kind you give to an acquaintance, and returned to his work as if she were a stranger.
The sharp sting of it lodged deep in her chest.
Her friend Clara noticed. "What happened between you two? Last week you couldn't stop smiling when he was around, and now you look like you've been through a breakup with a man you weren't even dating."
Amara forced a laugh, but it was hollow. "Nothing happened."
Clara leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. "That's the problem. Nothing happened."
That night, Amara lay awake replaying their balcony moment over and over. The way his voice had broken on the edge of confession. The way his eyes had looked at her like she was both salvation and danger.
And the way he had walked away.
Her phone stayed silent on the bedside table, as if mocking her. She wanted to text him, to demand answers, to ask if she had imagined everything. But her pride wrestled with her longing. If he wanted to distance himself, should she let him? Or was love worth the chase?
Meanwhile, Adrian wasn't faring better. In his apartment, he paced the floor, his phone heavy in his hand. His thumb hovered over her name countless times, but each time he stopped himself.
She deserves better. She deserves someone who won't drag her into the mess of my past.
But even as he told himself that lie, he caught himself glancing at the sketches she'd left behind at the café—the one he had picked up and kept without her noticing. A simple drawing of two hands almost touching. The unfinished distance between them haunted him.
The silence grew claws.
At the gallery opening Amara had once dreamed of attending with him, she found herself staring at a painting of two lovers separated by glass, their lips almost meeting but never touching. She wondered if fate was laughing at her.
Then, across the room, she saw him.
Adrian.
Their eyes locked, and for a suspended moment, it felt like gravity itself tilted toward him.
But before she could take a step—A woman touched Adrian's arm. Elegant, poised, whispering something that made him smile faintly.
Amara's chest squeezed.
She didn't wait to see more. She turned sharply, walking away before her heart betrayed her on her face.
Behind her, Adrian's eyes followed. He had wanted to chase her. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to. But the woman beside him—a ghost from his past, someone tied to the complications he feared would destroy Amara—held him in place.
And so the silence deepened.
Neither spoke. Neither explained. Both burned in the absence of what might have been said.