Some days, it felt like they were pretending.
Pretending everything was still as simple as before. Pretending that time hadn't carved new lines into their hearts while they were apart.
Other days, it felt like they were learning each other all over again—two souls tracing the same path with different feet.
Elena stood behind the café counter, sorting through invoices. The numbers blurred in her vision. Drew sat in the corner booth, sketchpad in hand, but not drawing. Again.
They hadn't fought. Not really. But the silence had returned. Not cold, just quiet. Careful.
"Your espresso," she said, sliding it across the counter toward him.
He looked up. "Thanks." His fingers brushed hers—warm, familiar.
She hesitated before asking, "Still stuck?"
He gave a half-smile. "Beyond stuck. I'm buried."
Elena nodded, but didn't press.
Somehow, it felt like pressing would break something. And neither of them were ready to see what that would look like.
---
That night, she found him on the roof again, lying on his back, staring at the stars like they owed him an answer.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked.
He patted the spot beside him.
She lay down, her head brushing his shoulder.
"I used to love this view," he said. "Now it feels…smaller."
Elena turned her head to him. "Or maybe you got bigger."
He smiled faintly. "You think I outgrew this place?"
"I think," she said gently, "you're scared of leaving it behind."
Silence.
"I feel guilty," he admitted.
"For what?"
"For wanting more. For loving you but still wondering what else is out there."
Her voice was quiet but sure. "Wanting more doesn't mean you love me less."
Drew closed his eyes. "What if it means I'll leave again?"
"Then I'll deal with that when it happens. But I'd rather love you now than fear the end."
He turned toward her, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Elena… what if you outgrow me first?"
She smiled sadly. "Then you'll know how it feels."
---
The next morning, they worked side by side. She managed suppliers. He finally drew.
By noon, he had filled three pages—colorless, raw, beautiful. Shapes twisting into emotion, unspoken thoughts turned into shadows and lines.
Elena paused to watch him. She didn't interrupt. Just watched the man she loved come back to himself—slowly, uncertainly—but honestly.
---
That weekend, the gallery in Boston called again.
This time, Drew didn't ignore it.
They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. A pot of tea between them, untouched.
"They want me for a winter showcase," he said. "Two months."
Elena sipped her tea. "That's soon."
"In three weeks."
She nodded slowly. "Will you go?"
"I want to," he said. "But not if it's going to tear us up."
She looked at him, firm and clear-eyed. "We don't get torn up by the miles, Drew. We get torn up when we stop telling the truth."
That stunned him a little.
"I can do two months," she said. "I can even do four. But I can't do silence. Or lies. Or half-hearted promises."
He reached across the table. "I won't ask you to wait."
"I won't wait," she said. "I'll live."
He blinked.
"I'll run the shop, host book nights, go on walks, live my life. And if we're both still choosing each other at the end of that—then we're stronger than I thought."
Drew nodded slowly. "Okay."
---
The day before he left, they went to the lake.
It was their place—quiet, wind-blown, a stretch of wild that didn't belong to anyone but felt like it had always been theirs.
They lay on a blanket, fingers entwined, watching clouds roll by.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Anything."
"If you ever fall out of love with me… don't pretend."
He was quiet for a long time. Then he whispered, "And if I don't?"
"Then keep coming back."
---
He left the next morning. No tears. Just tight hugs. A kiss like a held breath. And the promise that love, when it's true, doesn't break—it bends, it breathes, it waits.
Elena watched the bus pull away, hand pressed to her chest.
Then she walked back home. Alone. But not empty.
Because love hadn't left with him.
It stayed—woven in the sheets, folded in his sketches, echoing in her chest.