Leaving is easy. It's the fastest way to chase a new life, to start over, to become someone different. But it always comes with a price—a price so heavy you can never truly pay it.
For me, that price was the city.
I lost it once, yet it will always be my first home. My memories of it are blurred, fading at the edges, but my heart remembers. It was the place that gave me both the happiest and the most painful moments of my life.
Today, I want only one thing: to start again. To step forward without hesitation. To finally become the person I've always longed to be—free. Completely, undeniably free.
The ocean—nothing brings peace like it. It holds a freedom no city street can offer, a promise that you can go anywhere, escape anywhere, find safety wherever the waves reach. Walking beside it feels like owning the world, like everything you've ever wanted could be within your grasp.
And then there's my café. Not because it serves the best coffee—though they claim it does. Not because of the pastries or the quiet music. I love it because it gives me something I rarely find anymore: peace. A place where no one asks who you are, or why you're there. A place where you can sit for hours, undisturbed, invisible.
My sketchbook always tells the truth, even when I don't want it to. Most of the time, I never let anyone see it. It holds pieces of me I'd rather keep hidden.
But today, I want to draw. Not alleys. Not shadows. Not memories.
Today, I want to capture the sky reflected in the ocean—because sometimes the water wears the sky better than the sky wears itself.
Today felt different. I felt more alive, as if something good was waiting just around the corner. Maybe I'd been waiting years for this moment—for something to finally go right—and today, it felt like it might come true.
The café door creaked open, but I was lost in thought, my pencil moving absently across the page. Then it happened—hot coffee spilled across my sketchbook, dark liquid bleeding into the paper. My chest tightened with frustration.
"Oh crap—I'm so sorry!" a voice rushed out.
Napkins appeared in front of me, clumsy but fast, blotting at the mess. I looked up—and froze.
He was tall, with messy dark hair, storm-brown eyes, and rough hands that looked like they belonged to someone who worked, not someone who played. But it was the smile—crooked, a little shy—that caught me off guard. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
"It's okay," I managed, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Really. It's fine."
He didn't look convinced. "No, it's not. Your sketchbook… I ruined it. I should buy you a new one."
I shook my head quickly. "No, don't worry. It's just paper."
"Paper, maybe," he said, eyes flicking to the soaked pages, "but every notebook means something to the person who keeps it. It holds pieces of you. That makes it worth replacing."
His words surprised me. Not many people thought like that. But still, I refused. "Honestly, it's fine. I don't need a new one."
He studied me for a second, then softened. "All right. But at least let me buy you a coffee. You can't argue with that."
This time, I couldn't come up with an excuse. My lips curved into the smallest smile. "Okay. Coffee."
He returned a few minutes later, set the cup in front of me, and extended his hand. "Sky."
I glanced at his hand, then back at his face. Finally, I placed my fingers in his, steadying my breath. "Isabella."
He wanted to sit, but something felt wrong. There was a weight in the air, like someone watching us, waiting for the right moment. I almost stood up and left, but then I realized: I couldn't just walk away and leave him alone. If someone was watching, they'd see him with me and assume we were connected. That would put him in danger.
Sky was focused on his coffee. I forced myself to breathe. "Sky," I said, "I think I need a new sketchbook. The first pages are fine, but the page I was drawing on is ruined." I tried to smooth the damp paper, wiping at the stain until my fingers went gray with charcoal.
Something caught my eye—a sketch that had survived. Not the alley sketches I usually did, but a single face: a pair of brown eyes, bright and alive. I didn't recognize the face, but the expression felt familiar in the way some old songs feel familiar.
"Who is it?" he asked, noticing the page.
I couldn't answer. I only stared at the eyes, feeling a hollow tug of memory I couldn't name. He looked puzzled, as if he expected a story. I did too, but the story wouldn't come.
Then the moment passed. The café felt smaller, the atmosphere thicker. "I should go," I said, standing before I could talk myself out of it. Before I could grab my bag, I reached for his hand. He blinked in surprise at the sudden touch.
"I—sorry," I said, because I had no other excuse. He asked what was wrong; I lied—half-lied—"I'm bored. Want to come for a walk?" It sounded ridiculous even as I said it, but maybe that was what I needed: movement, space, the ocean air.
He hesitated, clearly unsure about a woman he'd just spilled coffee on asking him to wander the night with her. But then he shrugged and stood. "All right," he said.
I walked fast. He tried to keep up, breath coming quicker with every block; I felt guilty but kept going until we were out on the street and, for the first time since the spill, I glanced back. No one was following. No one watching. The city moved around us—traffic, neon, the distant siren—and the knot in my chest loosened.
Sky looked at me, half-smiling, half-concerned. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Do you want something to eat?"
I blinked. "I only just got into town a week ago. I don't know anywhere good." It came out small.
He grinned like that answered something. "I can be a decent guide," he said. "If you want."
I was still confused—about the eyes in the sketch, about him, about everything—but for now I said yes. We walked into the night, two stray figures moving through a city that kept its secrets close and gave nothing away for free.
The place he took me was alive with music and dancers, everything too loud and dazzling. I froze for a moment, unsure of where to look, how to breathe. Sky guided me to a table and ordered something to eat.
The food was good, surprisingly good, but the noise pressed against me. It wasn't a headache—it was more like I didn't belong there. The place was meant for laughter, for dancing, for people who wanted to lose themselves in the crowd. But all I wanted was silence, a corner to sit and gather the broken pieces of my life, to sort through the questions that haunted me.
Should I choose myself—or my family?
Should I follow the work I dream of—or the business they expect me to inherit?
As a daughter, as a leader, as someone people depend on, how can I possibly walk away?
And then there was the past. The unanswered pieces of it still waiting for me.
I was so deep in thought I forgot Sky was even there. When I finally came back to the present, he was just watching me quietly, patient, as if waiting for me to return from someplace far away.
It struck me as almost funny—someone sitting right beside you, yet you're miles apart. But when our eyes met, he smiled.
"I think," he said softly, "you need a place where you can find yourself."
How could he know? Maybe my face betrayed me. Or maybe it was something else.
He took my hand and, before I could think of an excuse, pulled me up. We ran, laughing breathlessly, until we climbed to the top of a small hill overlooking the city. The world below glittered with lights, every street alive with its own secret story.
He let go of my hand, and I stepped forward, taking it all in—the skyline, the hum of life, the beauty of a city that never slept. When I glanced back, he was still standing behind me. I tilted my head, inviting him closer. He came, and we sat together in silence.
For the first time in a long while, my mind stopped spinning. No fear, no questions, no weight on my shoulders—just the view, the night air, and the quiet company of someone who didn't ask for more.
Hours passed before he finally spoke.
"Why are you here?"
I turned to him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He studied me with that steady gaze. "It's clear you're not from here. So why did you come? People don't just end up in this city without a reason. Not this city."
I looked into his eyes and found no judgment, only curiosity. But his question pierced deeper than I expected.
Why was I here?
Was it because I wanted to chase the things that mattered to me?
Because the city felt like home, even when it wasn't?
Or… was I simply running from something I wasn't ready to face?
I didn't answer right away. Maybe because I didn't know. Maybe because I was afraid of the truth.
I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. Sky was still watching me, waiting—not pushing, just waiting. That made it harder somehow.
"I don't know," I said finally, though even I could hear the lie in my voice. "Maybe I just needed a change."
He tilted his head, as if he could see through me. "Change usually comes with a reason."
I looked away, down at the glowing streets. My hands were tight around my sketchbook, the ruined page still haunting me.
"There are things I don't want to remember," I whispered. "And things I can't forget."
Silence hung between us. The city lights blinked like stars, too far to touch.
Sky didn't ask again. He didn't press. Instead, he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "Then maybe this is where you'll find the answer," he said lightly.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. For a moment, I almost believed him.
But in the back of my mind, the question echoed louder than ever.
Why am I here?
Am I searching for something… or hiding from it?