For weeks after that walk by the river, Adrian and I slipped into a rhythm that felt at once natural and impossibly dangerous.
We met in quiet places, away from town—the library's back corner, the riverbank, the café on Tuesdays when the lunch crowd had gone. Sometimes we walked, sometimes we simply sat and let silence stretch between us, the kind of silence that carried more weight than words. It was as though no time had passed, and yet every moment reminded me of just how much time had been lost.
There was comfort in his presence, yes, but also a restlessness growing inside me, like a wound that had never healed properly and now throbbed in the light of day.
One afternoon, we lingered in my garden. The roses had bloomed early that year, their petals full and fragrant. Adrian leaned down to smell one, his fingers brushing against the soft curl of red.
"You always loved these," he said. "I remember how you used to tuck petals into your sketchbook, pressing them flat until they turned brittle."
I smiled faintly, though the memory stung. "I thought they could last that way. As if beauty could be trapped."
He looked up at me then, his eyes catching mine, and something passed between us—familiar, dangerous. "Some things can't be trapped, Elara. They live or they don't."
The air between us shifted. My breath caught. And for one reckless heartbeat, I wanted nothing more than to close the space, to kiss him until the years unraveled completely.
But I didn't.
Instead, I turned away, pretending to fuss with the soil by the roots. "And some things fade whether you want them to or not," I murmured.
The silence that followed was sharp.
When I glanced back, I found him studying me, his expression unreadable. For the first time since his return, I saw a shadow there—not the boy I remembered, not the man confessing his regrets, but someone harder, more complicated.
It unsettled me.
The unraveling began slowly.
One evening, after supper, I walked through town and saw him standing in front of the bookstore. He wasn't alone. A woman was with him—tall, graceful, with hair silvered in a way that only accentuated her beauty. She laughed at something he said, her hand brushing his arm, and the sight pierced me in a place I hadn't known was vulnerable.
I told myself it didn't matter. That he was free to speak to whomever he wished, that I had no claim on him. But that night, lying awake, I could still see the way his shoulders had tilted toward her, the ease of their conversation.
By morning, I was angry—not with him, but with myself. Hadn't I promised long ago that I'd never let him break me again?
And yet here I was, heart twisting like a girl of seventeen.
When we met the next day, I was curt, my words clipped.
"You've been busy," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
He blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I saw you. With her."
For a moment, he just stared, then laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "Elara, she's a friend. An old colleague. That's all."
"That's all?" The sharpness in my voice startled even me.
He stepped closer, his expression sobering. "Why does it matter?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, my chest tight. Because it mattered too much. Because no matter how much I wanted to deny it, I still carried him inside me.
But instead of admitting that, I said, "It doesn't."
The lie hung between us.
The days that followed were strained. Our conversations circled back to the past more often than not, and each memory we unearthed brought both joy and ache.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, he said, "Do you ever wonder what might have been, if I hadn't left?"
"Every day," I whispered before I could stop myself.
His hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach for mine, but he didn't. Instead, he looked at me with an intensity that made my throat dry.
"And if we tried again?" he asked softly.
The question sliced me open.
Part of me wanted to say yes, to fall into him, to let the years of longing collapse into a single choice. But another part of me recoiled, frightened. I had built a life without him—fragile though it was, it was still mine. Could I really dismantle it for a man who had already once left me behind?
"I don't know," I said, my voice trembling.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not asking for promises, Elara. Just honesty. I need to know if you still feel it—what we had."
My lips parted, but no words came. Because I did feel it, more than I dared admit. And yet the fear was louder.
I turned away, blinking against the sting of tears. "Some things are better left in memory," I said.
When I looked back, I saw the hurt in his eyes, quickly masked, but not gone.
That night, I sat in my kitchen long after the lamps had burned low, my hands wrapped around a cold cup of tea. I wanted to believe I was protecting myself, that by holding back I was sparing us both the pain of repeating the past. But deep down, I knew the truth.
It wasn't just fear of him breaking me again.
It was fear of discovering that maybe it wasn't love at all anymore—just longing for something that time had already taken.
And that fear was unraveling me from the inside out.