The sun was warm again.
Not just in temperature, but in the way it touched her skin — like a gentle reminder that even after the coldest winters, warmth returns.
It had been five weeks since Jace's story.
Two since she'd read it.
Zero replies.
Not because she didn't care.
But because for once, she didn't feel obligated to respond to someone else's growth.
She was too busy tending to her own.
Eleena had started painting again.
It wasn't something she was particularly great at — her brush strokes were impatient, her palettes chaotic. But there was freedom in not being perfect. Her tiny apartment smelled like citrus candles and paint thinner, and that was enough.
One afternoon, she wandered into a local art collective hosting a beginner's workshop. Nothing fancy. Just easels, paper, and a dozen strangers all fumbling with color.
That's where she met Calen.
Not tall, not imposing — just soft around the edges, like someone who understood how to take up space without dominating it. He wore paint-smeared overalls and introduced himself with a crooked smile.
"You're holding the brush too tight," he said, nodding toward her hand. "Let it breathe."
"I'm not here to make magic," she replied. "Just trying not to ruin the paper."
"Well," he grinned, "sometimes ruining the paper is the magic."
That made her laugh — real, from the chest, not the throat.
And for the next two hours, they talked about everything but love.
Over the following weeks, she found herself looking forward to the workshops. Not just because of the art — but because of how light she felt in that space.
Calen never asked her why her laugh sounded cautious.
Never probed about who'd hurt her.
He simply showed up, offered a brush, and reminded her that healing didn't always look like solitude — sometimes, it looked like safe company.
One night after class, as they packed up, he looked at her with a kindness that made her chest flutter — not with danger, but possibility.
"Do you want to grab a coffee sometime?" he asked.
Eleena hesitated, but not out of fear.
She smiled, tilting her head. "I'd like that."
Not I need that. Not finally, someone better than before.
Just: I'd like that.
Later that night, as she curled into bed, she glanced at the printed story Jace had sent. It sat on her bookshelf — a closed chapter. Not a ghost. Just a lesson.
She reached for her journal and wrote:
> I thought loving someone meant staying until it broke me.
I thought walking away meant failure.
But maybe love is also choosing peace over promises.
Maybe it's in quiet joy, paint-stained hands, and slow smiles from someone who doesn't want to fix me — just see me.
She exhaled, long and steady.
And for the first time in a long time, her heart felt light.
Not empty.
Just open.