Elijah's POV
The city smelled of rain and asphalt, sharp and clean. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting fragments of neon that danced like memories he couldn't shake.
Elijah walked without purpose, the collar of his coat pulled up against the chill. His office, his apartment, the meetings he ran through every day they felt hollow now. Every achievement, every deal, every accolade was muted by the one thing he couldn't fix.
Starling.
He had left her. Not because he wanted to, but because he thought it was necessary. And yet, seeing her again at the gallery had unraveled every justification he'd ever whispered to himself.
He stopped at a corner café, watching the steam rise from mugs inside. Couples laughed quietly, friends shared stories, and the world moved on as if he could just step into it and exist normally.
But he couldn't.
Her face haunted him not just the memory of that night, but every quiet detail. The way her hair had curled slightly at the ends, the faint tremor in her hand as she'd clutched her glass of champagne, the way her gaze lingered on her painting like it held all the answers she couldn't speak aloud.
He hated himself for the years he'd spent away. Every night she spent wondering why he'd disappeared, every moment she doubted herself because of him it was on his hands.
He didn't notice the rain starting again until it dampened his collar. Pulling his coat tighter, he ducked under a building awning and let the droplets hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing against the walls.
He remembered their conversations long nights, laughter too close to whispers, moments that had felt infinite. The almost-touches, the quiet confessions in the dark. He remembered the warmth of her presence, the way her laugh could slice through the heaviest tension, leaving something fragile and unguarded behind.
And he remembered leaving.
It hadn't been easy. Loyalty, circumstance, and timing had demanded a choice. One he thought he had made to protect her, but instead had left her broken.
The past few years had been hard, too. Work demanded everything, yet never filled the emptiness he carried with him. Friends tried to reach him, but they didn't understand the quiet weight he bore wasn't something you could shake off with conversation or alcohol.
Sometimes, late at night, he would find himself staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was happy, whether she'd healed, and whether she even remembered the man he used to be.
And there was Ivy.
Her messages, her expectations, her presence in his life like a constant shadow. Every decision he made was weighed against her: calls he had to take, meetings he couldn't miss, projects he couldn't ignore. She had been part of his world long before Starling, a constant obligation he hadn't been able to walk away from.
He pulled out his phone and saw her name flash again:
"Meeting at 11. Don't be late."
The message tightened his chest. Ivy existed in his life as both an anchor and a chain necessary, unavoidable, but suffocating. He typed a quick confirmation and slipped the phone back into his pocket. She would have to wait. Starling couldn't.
He quickened his pace, walking past familiar streets, past coffee shops and galleries, past the city's usual rhythm. Every corner seemed to whisper her name. He tried to focus, tried to plan the right words, the right approach but every thought circled back to her smile, her hands, the way she had looked at him like he mattered and yet was somehow out of reach.
By mid-morning, he found himself outside the gallery, hesitating just a block away from the building where he had last seen her. His pulse throbbed with anticipation, but also with fear what if she didn't want to see him? What if the silence had become a wall too high to climb?
He rested his hand against a lamppost, rain-slicked and cold, grounding himself. "Just one look," he muttered under his breath. "One chance to see her… to understand."
A memory flashed her voice, low and calm: "You shouldn't have come, Elijah."
The words stung, yet they were not rejection. They were a challenge, a fragile bridge he had to cross carefully.
He pressed onward, moving closer to the familiar building. At that moment, his phone buzzed again another reminder from Ivy.
"Call me. Now."
He ignored it, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Ivy could wait. Starling couldn't.
He reached the gallery's door and paused. The city hummed around him, unaware of the storm within him. He could retreat, return to his controlled, orderly world but he didn't.
Not this time.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
Every step was heavy with guilt, hope, and the terrifying possibility of redemption. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet, stubborn certainty told him: some connections weren't meant to be left behind.
Starling was one of them.
He paused at the edge of the main room, letting his eyes adjust to the soft light. There she was Starling. Her hair fell loosely around her face, her hands steady as she worked on a canvas. Her posture was casual, yet taut with focus. She hadn't seen him yet.
His chest tightened. He wanted to speak, to reach for her hand, to erase the years, but he stayed still.
Her head tilted slightly, sensing him even before she turned. Their eyes met.
"Elijah…"
"Starling," he whispered. "I… I had to see you."
Her expression held surprise, caution, anger, curiosity and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of hope.
"I know I disappeared," he said, voice low. "But I can't keep running. Not from you, not anymore."
A silence fell, thick but charged.
"I know it's too late," she murmured, "and yet… here you are."
Elijah didn't step closer. Not yet. Not until she was ready.
The first step had been taken. The distance between them was small, yet heavy with everything left unsaid.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent rhythm, unaware that two fractured lives hovered on the edge of something fragile something worth salvaging.
And Elijah, heart pounding, knew that tomorrow would bring another challenge, another test. Ivy would not remain absent forever, and her shadow would demand a confrontation.
But for now, he allowed himself one quiet, fragile moment of hope.