I should have thrown the box away years ago.
The thought crossed my mind every time I pulled it out from beneath my bed.
And every time, I ignored it.
Tonight was no different.
I sat cross-legged on the rug in my bedroom, the soft glow of my bedside lamp spilling across the wooden box resting between my knees. Outside my window, New York hummed with life. A distant siren wailed. Car horns drifted upward from the street below. Somewhere nearby, laughter echoed into the night.
Life moved on.
People moved on.
Apparently, I had missed that lesson.
My fingers traced the worn edge of the box. The wood had darkened with age, one corner slightly chipped from when I accidentally dropped it during freshman year. I still remembered panicking more over the box than the bruised knee I'd earned with it.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
I blew out a slow breath and lifted the lid.
Memories stared back at me.
Birthday cards.
Postcards.
A fountain pen.
Hotel key cards from cities I'd never seen.
And tucked carefully beneath everything else
a photograph.
My chest tightened.
I picked it up carefully, my thumb brushing over the glossy surface.
I was seventeen in the photo.
Dad stood on my left, grinning at the camera.
Adrian stood on my right.
Even now, years later, my eyes went straight to him.
Not because of the expensive suit.
Not because he was handsome.
Though he was.
God, he was.
No.
I looked because, even at seventeen, I had looked at him as if he hung the stars.
My younger self hadn't been subtle.
Not at all.
The photographer had captured it perfectly.
Dad is smiling at the camera.
Adrian is looking ahead.
And me
looking at Adrian.
Like an idiot.
Heat crept up my neck.
I quickly slid the photo back into the box as though someone had caught me.
Which was ridiculous.
I lived alone in my thoughts.
No one was here to judge me except myself.
And frankly?
I was my harshest critic.
My gaze landed on the oldest card.
Sixteen.
The year everything changed.
My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it.
Not because I didn't know what it said.
I knew every word.
By heart.
Happy Sixteenth Birthday, Ava.
I know you'll do something remarkable with your life.
Adrian
Four lines.
Four harmless lines.
I stared at the handwriting until the words blurred.
To anyone else, it was just a birthday card.
To sixteen-year-old me?
It had been everything.
Because at sixteen, I had been foolish enough to mistake kindness for destiny.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I had fallen in love with the wrong man.
A sharp knock sounded at my door.
I startled so hard that the card slipped from my fingers.
"Come in," I called, clearing my throat.
The door opened, and my mother stepped inside carrying two mugs of tea.
Her eyes immediately found the open box.
Of course they did.
Chloe Storm noticed everything.
Her gaze softened for the briefest moment before she masked it with a smile.
"I thought you might need this."
She held out the mug.
I reached for it, our fingers brushing briefly.
The warmth seeped into my palms.
"Thank you."
She sat beside me on the rug, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her sweater.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The silence between us had never been uncomfortable.
Mom had always understood that some silences deserved respect.
Her gaze drifted to the box.
Then to me.
Then back to the box.
A mother could say a thousand things without speaking.
Mine was an expert.
"You know," she said lightly, wrapping both hands around her mug, "most people your age collect concert tickets."
I groaned immediately.
"Mom."
Her lips twitched.
"What? I'm just saying."
I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead.
"You promised not to tease me."
"I promised nothing."
Liar.
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
She always did this.
Made heavy things feel lighter.
Her eyes softened.
"Big day tomorrow."
There it was.
The reason my stomach had been in knots for the last month.
Adrian.
After four years abroad
He was coming home.
My fingers tightened around the mug.
Too tightly.
The ceramic pressed into my skin.
I loosened my grip before I accidentally cracked it.
"Mm."
An incredibly intelligent response.
Mom watched me quietly.
Too quietly.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Ava."
The way she said my name made my chest tighten.
Not because she sounded disappointed.
Because she sounded gentle.
And gentle was dangerous.
Gentleness made people tell the truth.
I looked away first.
Out the window.
Anywhere but her eyes.
"I know that look," she said softly.
Of course she did.
Mothers should come with warning labels.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The lie came too quickly.
Her eyebrow lifted.
One eyebrow.
Devastating.
"I didn't say anything."
I exhaled through my nose.
Caught.
Again.
The worst part about having a close relationship with your mother?
She knew your tells.
All of them.
"I'll survive dinner tomorrow."
Her expression didn't change.
Not even a little.
"That's not what worries me."
My heart stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
Then began beating far too quickly.
Did she know?
No.
She couldn't.
Could she?
Six years.
Six years of carefully hidden feelings.
Six years of pretending.
Six years of loving someone who could never be mine.
No one knew.
Except Lily.
And maybe
No.
Surely not Mom.
Right?
She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear like she had when I was little.
The gesture nearly undid me.
"You've grown into a wonderful woman, Ava."
Emotion rose unexpectedly in my throat.
I swallowed hard.
"Mom..."
Her smile was small.
Tender.
Proud.
The kind of smile that made you feel loved and seen all at once.
Then she stood.
At the doorway, she paused.
Without turning around, she said quietly.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, remember that some feelings aren't wrong just because they're complicated."
My breath caught.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too warm.
My eyes burned.
She knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
The door clicked shut behind her.
I sat there for a long moment, unable to move.
Outside, the city carried on.
Inside, my world tilted slightly off its axis.
Slowly, I reached for the box again.
For the years inside it.
For the memories.
For the impossible hope I'd never quite managed to kill.
Tomorrow, Adrian Blackwood will return to New York.
Tomorrow, I will see him for the first time in four years.
And for the first time since I was sixteen
I wasn't sure my heart would survive it.
My phone buzzed against the rug.
I glanced down.
Lily.
A smile tugged at my mouth as I opened the message.
Then it disappeared.
LILY: Guess whose private jet landed three hours early?
My breath stopped.
No.
No, no, no.
My pulse kicked into overdrive.
Adrian isn't arriving tomorrow.
He was already here.