For months, she had been an echo—someone who existed only in the remnants of ink left on paper, in the empty spaces where letters had once been exchanged. Now, she was here, standing just a few feet away, unaware of him, unaware of what she had unknowingly left behind.
The conversations around him blurred into background noise. The hum of the gallery, the quiet laughter, the clinking of glasses—all of it faded into something distant, insignificant.
This was the moment he had imagined more times than he wanted to admit. But now that it was here, he hesitated.
Would she recognize him?
Of course not.
To her, he was just a stranger in a crowded room.
And yet, she wasn't a stranger to him.
Oryn took a slow breath, steadying himself. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, he took a step forward.
Lana turned slightly, still engaged in conversation, oblivious to the way he was closing the distance between them.
Five steps.
Four.
Three.
Then someone called her name.
She turned fully at the sound, her attention shifting, and for a second, he saw her properly.
She looked the same, yet different. Familiar, yet distant.
And then she laughed—soft, genuine. The kind of laugh that carried warmth.
Something about it unsettled him.
Because for months, he had imagined her as a fragment of something unfinished, a story left open-ended. He had thought of her in quiet moments, in fleeting what-ifs, in the ink of words that had never been spoken.
But here she was. Whole. Moving forward.
As if she hadn't left behind a story at all.
As if he had been the only one still holding on.
Oryn hesitated.
This was his chance.
To say something. To introduce himself. To bridge the space between what they had been and what they could be.
But then she turned away again, pulled back into conversation, and just like that—
The moment passed.
Oryn exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Maybe this wasn't the time.
Maybe it never would be.
Or maybe—just maybe—he needed to rewrite how this story would unfold.