Chapter One-The Empty Side of the Bed
Astaina had always hated the sound of silence—especially the kind that hummed between two people who once said forever.The house was too quiet again. Not the peaceful kind, but the aching kind, the kind that echoed with everything that used to be there. Ariel's coffee mug still sat on the kitchen shelf, untouched. His favorite hoodie hung behind the door, forgotten. The scent of him had long since faded from the pillow next to hers.
She didn't cry anymore. That had stopped months ago, when the calls slowed from daily to weekly, then monthly to never. When his texts became polite. When he started ending them with his name, as if she might not know who it was anymore.
Ariel.
Just his name.
No heart. No love. No I miss you.
That was the day she knew she was married in paperwork only.She'd spent three months unlearning how to wait. She got her own coffee. Fixed her own leaky faucet. Took herself out to movies and didn't pretend she needed company. And on a rainy Tuesday in April, Astaïna signed her name on the divorce papers with a shaking hand and a steady heart.
Chapter Two-Ghosts with Blue Eyes
The last time Astaïna saw Ariel, he was walking away from Gate 34 at the airport, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a promise on his lips that never made it to his eyes.
"I'll be back before you know it," he'd said.
But she did know it. She knew silence better than she knew love by then.So when she opened the door and found him there—months after their divorce, the ink barely dry—her first instinct was to close it again.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, clutching the edge of the door like a shield.
Ariel looked the same and entirely different. The beard was new. So was the tiredness in his eyes. But his voice? Still soft. Still familiar in a way that hurt.
"I needed to see you," he said. "Just… to talk."
"No."
Astaïna didn't owe him softness anymore. Not after she waited through birthdays, anniversaries, Sunday mornings filled with silence instead of pancakes and kisses. Not after she finally signed her name on the line that freed her.But as she tried to close the door, Ariel reached out—not to force it open, but to stop it gently.
"I left everything, Astaïna."
Her name in his mouth sounded different now. Like a prayer, not a habit.
She hesitated.
"Five minutes," she said. "Then you leave."
He stepped inside. The air between them changed. Still and heavy, like the moment before a storm.And just like that, the past slipped in with him.
Chapter Three-Unwelcome Memories
The door clicked shut behind Ariel, but his presence clung to the air like steam after a storm.Astaïna stood still in her hallway, arms folded, as if bracing herself against something invisible. She had survived the silence. She had endured the leaving. But nothing had prepared her for the return.She made tea, out of habit. Two cups. She poured one down the sink without thinking.
Outside, the wind pressed against the window like it wanted in. Inside, her mind flickered to all the ways Ariel used to fill the space. The shoes by the door. The jacket always hung wrong. The toothbrush that still sat in the drawer she hadn't opened since February.
She should have thrown it all out.
She meant to.
Instead, she walked to the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. Her eyes landed on The Little Prince—his favorite. The corner was still bent where he had left it. Page 87. The part where the fox explains love with soft words and waiting.
She didn't cry. But she felt the ache again—the kind that settled behind the ribs and refused to leave.
That night, she dreamed of him.
Not the him who left.
The one who used to stay.
Ariel with sun-warmed skin and his hand on the small of her back as they danced barefoot in the living room. Ariel reading poems out loud, even when he stumbled over the French ones. Ariel whispering, "You make everything feel like home."
And then—
The silence again.
The empty chair.
The passport on the nightstand.
The door closing.
She woke up before dawn, eyes wide, heart sore.
The city outside was still asleep. But Astaïna was wide awake. Not waiting. Not hoping.
Just… remembering.
Chapter Four-Astaïna Rewritten
The morning after Ariel's visit, Astaïna woke with the weight of old memories pressing against her ribs. But she didn't let them settle. Not this time.
She got up. She dressed with intention—no more oversized sweaters meant to hide her, no more muted colors to blend in. She wore the yellow wrap dress. The one that made her feel like a sunflower that bloomed on purpose.Downstairs, her camera bag waited by the door. She had three clients lined up today—one maternity shoot, one couple's engagement, and one quiet session for an elderly man who wanted photos of his garden "before the real spring."
Life hadn't stopped just because Ariel had reappeared.
By mid-afternoon, Astaïna found herself sitting on a park bench, sipping iced tea from a paper cup. Her fingers still smelled faintly of lavender from her last shoot.She scrolled through her camera roll, pausing on a photo she hadn't meant to keep: a candid of her own reflection, caught in a window. Unposed. Sharp eyes. Mouth mid-smile. She looked… different.Not like the version of herself who had spent so long waiting on the sound of a text that never came. Not the version who dimmed herself to make space for someone else's dreams.
This Astaïna was bold. Bright. Becoming.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was missing something. She felt like she was growing into herself.
Later that evening, her phone buzzed. A name she knew too well.
Ariel.
Can I talk to you? Just talk. Please.
She stared at the message. Not angry. Not eager. Just… unsure.
I'm busy, she replied.
Maybe another day.
She hit send. Then she turned her phone face down and went back to editing her photos—cropping, coloring, choosing where to soften and where to keep the shadows.There was a quiet satisfaction in it. Choosing what stayed and what was no longer needed.
Chapter Five-The first real conversation
They met at a quiet café on the edge of the city—the kind with soft lighting and plants hanging from the ceiling like secrets. Astaïna picked the place. If she was going to talk to Ariel, she wanted the control of choosing where, and the comfort of a place that felt like hers.
She arrived early. Sat by the window. Ordered chamomile tea and nothing more.
Ariel arrived seven minutes late. Not enough to irritate her, but just enough to feel like him.
He looked tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep. The kind that comes from carrying something too long.
"Hey," he said softly, sliding into the seat across from her.
"Hi."
Silence.
Astaïna stirred her tea even though she didn't take sugar. Just to do something with her hands.Ariel watched her like she might disappear.
"I didn't come back expecting anything," he said.
She looked up. "Then why did you come back?"
He hesitated. "Because I finally realized what I left behind."
She almost laughed. Not out of humor—but disbelief. "You mean who you left behind."
"Yes." His voice cracked. "You. I left you, Astaïna. I was so caught up in being what I thought I was supposed to be—successful, driven, dependable—I forgot the one thing that actually made me feel like any of that mattered."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't let it show. "You forgot me for two years, Ariel. Two years of cold dinners. Missed birthdays. Conversations that ended in echoes."
"I know. I was selfish. Afraid. I didn't know how to be both—someone who loved his work and someone who loved his wife."
"You didn't try," she said. Not angrily. Just truthfully.
He nodded. "You're right."
Silence settled between them again. But this time, it didn't feel hostile. It felt like a pause in a long, painful song.Astaïna looked out the window. A couple walked by, fingers laced, laughing at something only they shared.She remembered what that felt like.
"I'm not the same woman anymore," she said. "I'm not waiting for someone to choose me last."
"I know," he said. "I see it."
And he did. She could tell.
Astaïna finished her tea. Set the cup down gently.
"I don't know what you want from me, Ariel. But if you're here just to ease your guilt, don't. I've worked too hard to carry only what's mine."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he said. "I'm asking for time. To prove I can be different. Even if that means just being a better memory in your life."
That surprised her.
She stood. He didn't follow. Didn't beg.She picked up her bag and gave him one long look.
"Then start with that," she said. "Be better. Even if I'm not yours to be better for."
Chapter Six -The spark Stayed
The café conversation should have closed something. Sealed it. Let her move forward with peace.But it didn't.Instead, it opened a window she didn't know was still cracked—just wide enough for the past to drift in like smoke.Astaïna didn't respond to Ariel's follow-up texts. Not right away. But she didn't delete them either.She read them at night, in bed, after brushing her teeth and turning off the light.
They were simple messages. No pressure. No apologies written in bold.
Today I watched the rain and thought of you. You always loved storms.Volunteered at the shelter today. There was a dog that wouldn't stop staring at me like I owed it an explanation. Maybe I did.No expectations. Just hoping your day held something soft.Something about his words didn't feel like the Ariel she used to know. They weren't perfect. But they were trying.
Two weeks later, they ran into each other at the farmer's market.She was buying honeycomb and fresh figs. He was holding a bundle of herbs, looking deeply confused.
"Basil or mint?" he asked, lifting the bunches like peace offerings.
"You're asking me?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.
He smiled, sheepish. "Old habits."
She tried not to smile back. Failed.
They walked together for a while. Talked about neutral things—how she was photographing a small wedding next month, how he'd been taking a woodworking class, of all things. He showed her a picture of the crooked shelf he built. She laughed out loud.It felt easy. Easier than it should've.The next time they met, it was intentional.
He invited her to his friend's art show, not as a date—just as someone who might enjoy it. She said yes, surprising herself.
The gallery was tucked in an alley, full of moody light and mixed media. Astaïna wandered the space like it was a story she didn't want to end. Ariel watched her from a few steps behind, letting her move, not rushing to catch up.At one point, she stopped in front of a piece made entirely of broken mirror shards. It caught the light in jagged reflections.
"That one's my favorite," she said.
"Because it's fractured?" he asked.
"Because it still reflects."
He looked at her like he wanted to say something. But didn't.They stood there in silence, side by side, surrounded by all the versions of themselves—whole, cracked, and maybe still beautiful
That night, he walked her to her car.
"I've missed this," he said. "Being beside you. Laughing."
She turned the key in the door but didn't get in.
"I miss it too," she admitted. "But missing doesn't mean we go back."
"No," Ariel said. "It just means there's still something here. Maybe."
Her fingers hovered over the door handle.
"Maybe."
Chapter Seven-Temptation and distance
The man's name was Kael.
She met him at a gallery opening she was hired to photograph. He had kind eyes, a quiet way of speaking, and the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd said something funnier than you had.He asked her out over email. Polite. Low-pressure. Exactly the kind of softness she told herself she deserved.
So she said yes.
They met at a rooftop bar with string lights and jazz humming in the background. The night was warm and breezy. Astaïna wore a white linen dress and lip gloss that caught the light.Kael listened. Asked questions. Made her laugh. Not like Ariel used to—not with inside jokes and shared past—but with curiosity. With presence.
"You seem like someone who remembers everything," he said at one point.
"Sometimes that's not a gift," she replied.
But she smiled anyway.
Across the city, Ariel sat alone in his apartment, surrounded by the smell of sawdust and rosemary.
He knew she was on a date. She hadn't said it, but she didn't need to. He felt it in the silence between her texts. In the way she had begun to pull back—not out of anger, but out of healing.And he hated how much he had taken that version of her for granted.He stared at the half-built bench in front of him—his latest project—and saw how much work it still needed. The screws weren't flush. The stain was uneven. He didn't know how to fix it yet.But he wouldn't abandon it. Not again.
Later that week, Astaïna and Kael met again—for lunch this time. It was nice.
Just… nice.
But when he reached for her hand across the table, something tightened in her chest. Not fear. Not revulsion. Just… a pang. A quiet reminder of something unfinished.A ghost still warm in the room.
That night, she stood in front of her mirror, removing her earrings slowly, one by one.
She texted Ariel.
Are you free tomorrow?
The reply came fast.
Always. Just say when.
Chapter Eight-The Choice
The email arrived on a rainy Thursday morning.
Subject: You've Been Selected — Paris Artist Residency, Fall Term
Astaïna read it three times before it sank in. Six months in Paris. All expenses paid. A solo exhibit at the end. A chance to live in light, to chase beauty, to build something entirely her own.She stared at the blinking cursor in her reply box, fingers trembling.She had applied on a whim. Half-believing she'd never get it. Now it was real.And suddenly, everything else felt less certain.That evening, she met Ariel in the park. He was already there when she arrived, sitting on their old bench with a thermos of chai and two cups—just like he used to do, back when they still believed in small traditions.
"Hi," he said, standing.
"Hi."
They sat.
"I got into the residency," she said, skipping the warm-up.
He blinked. Then smiled—genuinely, without hesitation.
"Paris?" he asked.
She nodded. "Six months. I'd leave in two."
A pause.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
And he meant it. She could tell.
But beneath the pride, there was something else. Something quiet and breaking.
"You always said you'd go," he added. "Now you are."
She looked down at the cup in her hands. "It feels like the version of me I was supposed to become… is finally catching up."
"And the version of me that should've seen her sooner," Ariel said, "is just now learning how to."
Later that night, she lay awake, listening to the rain against her window. Her suitcase sat open in the corner. She hadn't packed yet, but in her mind, she was already halfway across the ocean.
Her phone lit up.
Ariel:
I got a job offer today. Overseas. Six figures. Fast track.
I told them no.
She stared at the message, heart heavy and full.
Her reply:
Why?
Ariel:
Because I'm finally choosing what matters.
And if there's even the smallest chance…
I want to be someone who stays.
Even if I'm staying without you.
Astaïna closed her eyes.
There it was.
Not a love story in bloom.
Not a promise.
Just truth.
And sometimes, that was more powerful than "I love you."
Chapter Nine-The Goodbye That Matters
The day of her departure came sooner than expected.
Paris waited—brimming with light, with art, with possibility. Astaïna's passport sat tucked into the front of her canvas bag. Her camera gear was packed. Her books chosen carefully. Everything she needed for the next six months was in place.
Everything except a clean ending.
They met one last time. No drama. No final kiss framed by music. Just a quiet morning on the edge of the lake, where the city still held its breath.Ariel brought her coffee. She brought him a photo—the one she had taken of him at the art gallery, standing in front of the mirror-shard sculpture, unaware she was even watching.
He looked at it, stunned.
"I didn't know you took this," he said softly.
"I know."
He traced the image with his thumb, careful, reverent. "I don't look like the man I used to be."
"You're not," she said. "That's the point."
There were no big speeches. They had already said everything.
Instead, they sat beside each other like they had so many times before—this time, not reaching for hands, not clinging to what was, but simply being there. Sharing a breath. A moment.
Finally, Astaïna stood.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
He looked up at her. "For what?"
"For trying."
He nodded. Eyes glassy, but no tears fell.
She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Slow. Warm. Not a beginning. Not an end.
A thank-you.
"I'll see you around," she said.
And she meant it.
Not as a promise.
But as a possibility.
Astaïna walked away without looking back.
She didn't need to.
Sometimes real love doesn't end with staying.
Sometimes it ends with becoming.
Chapter Ten-Maybe Still Us
Paris was louder than she expected.
It buzzed with color and scent—fresh bread at sunrise, music rising from street corners, old shutters creaking open to greet the day.
Astaïna learned the rhythm slowly:
Mornings with her camera.
Afternoons lost in galleries.
Evenings spent sipping espresso at the same café, where the barista knew her name by week two.She missed home. But not in the aching way. In the soft way. Like muscle memory.
Her exhibit opened in October.
People wandered through, pausing before photos of strangers laughing, of light scattered on tile floors, of hands brushing in crowded markets. At the very center: a photo called Reflection Study—the one of Ariel, standing in front of the fractured mirror.
Some lingered there longest.
A young woman asked, "Is that someone you loved?"
Astaïna smiled.
"Still do," she said. "Just differently now."
Winter rolled in quiet and pale.And one morning, just before closing her exhibit, she stepped into that same café—scarf wrapped tight, cheeks flushed—and there he was.
Ariel.
Holding a book. Wearing a coat she'd never seen. Looking up like he'd been waiting for her to walk in.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, half laughing, half stunned.
"I came for the last day of the show," he said. "And… maybe to see if you'd still recognize me."
"I'd recognize you anywhere," she whispered.
A pause.
Then he held out his hand—not demanding, not assuming.
Just offering.
She didn't take it.
Not right away.
Instead, she looked at him for a long moment—really looked. Not at who he had been. Not at who she had once needed him to be.
But at who he was now.
And then, slowly, she reached for his hand.
Not to go back.
But maybe… forward.
Together.
Maybe still them.
Maybe still us.
The End .