Tomorrow turned into a week. Then two weeks. Then a month.
They fell into a pattern, Aria and Ethan. Meeting at the diner most nights, sometimes at the
bookstore when it was open, occasionally just walking through the city until dawn broke and
they had to return to their separate lives.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, Ethan had texted her an address she didn't recognize. Trust me, he'd written. You'll
like it.
Aria stood in front of a nondescript building in a neighborhood she rarely visited, checking her
phone to make sure she had the right place. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open,
revealing a narrow staircase leading up.
Her heart was pounding as she climbed. Three floors. Four. Five.
At the top, another door. She knocked.
Ethan opened it, and for a moment, all Aria could do was stare.
She'd never seen him like this—relaxed, almost excited. He was wearing a faded t-shirt and
jeans, his hair still damp like he'd just showered, and there was something lighter in his
expression. Something that made him look younger.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside.
She walked into what was clearly his apartment, and immediately understood why he'd
brought her here.
The space was small but filled with light. And photographs. Everywhere. Covering the walls,
pinned to boards, scattered across every surface. Not the corporate work he did for money,
but his real work. The art he created for himself.
Aria moved through the space slowly, taking it all in. Images of the city at strange hours.
Portraits of strangers caught in moments of raw emotion. Landscapes that managed to make
the urban feel wild.
"These are incredible," she whispered.
"They're my therapy," Ethan said from behind her. "The only time I feel like myself is when I'm
shooting. When I'm trying to capture something true."
She stopped in front of a photograph that made her chest ache. A woman sitting alone in a
coffee shop, staring out the window with an expression of such profound loneliness it hurt to
look at.
"When did you take this?"
"About a year ago. I was in that coffee shop every morning for three months, and she was
always there. Always alone. Always with that same look on her face." He came to stand
beside her. "I never talked to her. Never found out her story. But I couldn't stop photographing
her."
"Why?"
"Because I recognized that look. It was the same one I saw in the mirror every morning."
Aria turned to face him. They were standing close now, close enough that she could see the
flecks of gold in his eyes, could feel the heat coming off his body.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.
"Because I wanted you to see this. See me. Not the version I show the world, but the real me.
The person I am when I'm alone with my camera." He paused. "And because I wanted to
photograph you."
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Not like that," he said quickly. "Not... I don't know. Posed or formal. I just want to capture you
the way I see you. If that's okay."
It should have felt invasive. Uncomfortable. But looking at him, at the vulnerability in his
request, Aria understood what he was really asking.
He wanted to know her the way he knew those strangers in his photographs. Wanted to see
her honestly, without filters or pretense.
"Okay," she said softly.
Ethan's face lit up. He grabbed his camera—not the professional one he used for work, but an
older model that looked worn with use and love—and gestured for her to sit.
Aria settled on the windowsill, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know what to do."
"Don't do anything. Just be."
He started shooting, moving around her with the quiet focus of someone completely absorbed
in their work. Aria tried to relax, but being observed so intently made her hyperaware of every
breath, every movement.
"Tell me about your day," Ethan said as he adjusted his lens.
"What?"
"Just talk to me. Forget the camera."
So she did. Started talking about work, about the new project she'd been assigned, about how
frustrating it was to have ideas but no authority to implement them. And as she talked, she
forgot about the camera. Forgot to perform or pose. Just existed in the moment.
Click. Click. Click.
"Tell me about the first time you knew you wanted to be an architect," Ethan said.
Aria smiled at the memory. "I was seven. Lily and I built this elaborate fort out of cardboard
boxes in our backyard. We spent weeks on it. Made windows, a door, even tried to wire it for
lights with a flashlight and some tape." She laughed. "It lasted exactly one day before a storm
destroyed it. But I remember standing in the ruins, already planning how to rebuild it better.
How to make it stronger."
"That's what you still do, isn't it? Try to build things that can withstand the storms."
The observation landed somewhere deep. "I guess so. Not that it works."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because the storms always win. Always. No matter how strong you build, something can
always knock it down."
Ethan lowered his camera. "Is that what you think happened with Lily? That she got knocked
down?"
"Didn't she?"
"Maybe. Or maybe she just existed, fully and completely, until she couldn't anymore. Maybe
the point isn't to build things that last forever. Maybe it's just to build something beautiful while
you can."
Aria felt tears threatening. "I don't know how to do that. How to create something knowing it
won't last."
"Don't you? You're here with me right now. You know this might not last. You know I might
hurt you or you might hurt me or the universe might decide we've had enough happiness. But
you're here anyway."
He was right. She was here. Despite every instinct telling her to protect herself, to run, to hide
behind the walls she'd built so carefully.
"I'm terrified," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of you. Of feeling something again."
Ethan set his camera down and crossed to where she sat. He didn't touch her, just stood
close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
"I'm terrified too," he said quietly. "I destroyed the last relationship I had. Drove away
someone who loved me because I was too broken to love myself. What if I do the same thing
to you? What if I'm still that person?"
"Are you?"
"I don't know. I'm trying not to be. But trying isn't always enough."
They stood there, two terrified people teetering on the edge of something neither understood.
"Can I tell you something?" Aria said.
"Always."
"When Lily died, I decided I was done. Done with risk, done with vulnerability, done with letting
people close enough to hurt me. I was just going to exist quietly until I stopped existing. Safe
and small and alone."
"What changed?"
"You," she said simply. "You changed. That first night in the bookstore, when you looked at
me like I was worth knowing... something woke up. Something I'd thought was dead."
Ethan's hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. His fingers brushed her cheek,
gentle and questioning.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to be good for someone. How
to not ruin everything I touch."
"Then we'll figure it out together. We'll be terrified together. We'll mess up together." Aria
leaned into his touch. "I'm tired of being alone, Ethan. Even if this ends badly. Even if we
break each other. I'm tired of being alone."
"Me too."
The kiss, when it finally came, was soft and tentative. A question rather than a demand.
Ethan's lips on hers, gentle and uncertain, tasting like coffee and promise and fear.
Aria's hands came up to grip his shirt, holding on like he might disappear if she let go. The
kiss deepened, still slow, still careful, like they were both afraid of breaking the moment.
When they finally pulled apart, Ethan rested his forehead against hers.
"That was..." he started.
"Yeah," Aria finished.
They stood there, holding each other in the fading light, and Aria felt something shift inside
her. Not healing—healing was too simple a word for what this was. But maybe the beginning
of it. The first crack in the walls she'd built around her heart.
"Stay," Ethan said. "Not like that. Just... stay. Talk to me. Let me photograph you. Let's just be
here together."
And Aria, who'd spent three years running from connection, from vulnerability, from anything
that might hurt her, said yes.
They spent the night like that. Talking. Laughing. Ethan showing her his favorite photographs
and telling her the stories behind them. Aria slowly, carefully, letting herself be known.
And when dawn came, painting the apartment in soft gold light, they were still there. Still
together. Still choosing each other despite every reason not to.
It was the beginning of something. Something beautiful and terrifying and absolutely
inevitable.
And neither of them was prepared for what came next.