---
The silence didn't last forever.
Eventually, it got interrupted by things like ringing phones, clinking cups, and the rustle of people asking if I was "doing okay" with that look in their eyes—the one that meant they already knew I wasn't.
The world had the audacity to keep spinning.
Bills still arrived. Rain still fell. And Nia was still banging on my door like she was the only one allowed to be broken loudly.
"Amaya," she called from the other side, voice sharp and worried. "It's been six days. If you don't open this door, I'm coming in with a damn hammer."
I let her in, mostly because I didn't want her to break my door. But also because part of me hoped she'd stop the ache in my chest.
She didn't. But she did make me tea, yelled at me to take a shower, and threw away Luca's toothbrush.
"That wasn't yours to touch," I said softly, eyes burning.
Nia froze, toothbrush in hand, then looked at me. "And he wasn't yours to love, but you did anyway."
I didn't reply. Because she was right. That's the worst part of truth—it never needs to be loud to cut you open.
---
Later that night, I sat by the window. My sketchpad rested on my knees, empty. I hadn't painted in two weeks. It felt like touching color would betray the black and white pain inside me.
That's when I met him.
Zayne.
Not in a romantic way. Not yet. Not in a way that made me forget Luca or stop aching. But in the way a calm voice breaks through a panic attack without trying too hard.
He was just... there.
The gallery down the street was doing a night exhibition on heartbreak. Irony? Maybe. But Nia dragged me there under the threat of canceling our Wi-Fi if I refused.
The gallery buzzed with soft jazz and the scent of wine I couldn't bring myself to sip. I stood in front of a painting—smeared greys and splashes of crimson—and just stared.
"That one looks like what crying in public feels like," a deep voice beside me said.
I turned.
Zayne had soft eyes. Not soft like weak. Soft like safe.
He wore all black, except a ring on his finger—a thick silver band etched with words too tiny to read. His hair was a messy halo of curls, and his voice sounded like someone who'd read too many sad books and decided to live gently because of them.
"I'm Zayne," he said simply.
"Amaya."
We didn't shake hands. We just looked back at the painting.
He didn't ask me why I looked sad.
He didn't ask me if I was "getting better."
He just said, "Pain like that doesn't leave quietly, huh?"
And I swear… for the first time in a week, I almost breathed.
---
A few days passed.
I painted again.
Nothing big. Just one canvas. A girl standing on a ledge, not jumping. Just… standing.
Watching the world go on without her.
Zayne started texting me little things.
Quotes. Songs. Once a picture of his cat curled in a shoebox.
He wasn't trying to fix me.
And that's why I started letting him in.
---
Then came the email.
Subject: Found this. Thought you should see.
It was from Isla Rayne, Luca's former bandmate.
I stared at the screen, pulse racing. I hadn't seen her since she sang backup for Luca during that rooftop show—the night he told me he wanted forever.
I opened the email.
Inside was a voice note.
Just two words from Luca:
> "I'm sorry."
Nothing else.
No date. No location. Just his voice. Raw. Shaking.
I replayed it five times before I realized I was crying again.
---
That night, I told Nia about it.
She didn't flinch. Just sipped her tea and said, "You know that sorry isn't going to stitch you back together, right?"
I nodded.
But part of me still wanted to believe maybe, just maybe… it could.