Julian watched Evelyn's face carefully, searching for a trace of the softness that usually lived in her eyes. But now, her gaze was lowered, fixed on the swirling cream in her untouched coffee.
"I should've told you sooner," he said finally, his voice low. "About her. It wasn't serious for long — just a few months before I was deployed. It ended… badly, and I didn't think she'd ever come back into my life."
Evelyn gave a small nod, though her fingers still twisted nervously in her lap. "It's not that I don't understand," she murmured. "It's just—seeing her with you, and the way she spoke… it made me feel like I was intruding on something I don't belong to."
Julian leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. "You belong more than you think."
Evelyn finally looked up at him, her voice trembling. "Then why did it hurt so much to see her? Why did it feel like she still had a part of you?"
Julian exhaled slowly, guilt flashing across his face. "Because she once did. But not anymore, Evelyn. You need to believe me when I say that what I feel for you… it's nothing like what I ever felt for her."
Her eyes searched his, uncertain, aching to trust him — but the doubt clung like a shadow. "She knew things about me, Julian," she whispered. "Things you told her. You must have talked about me before we even met."
Julian looked away, shame flickering in his eyes. "I did. Once. When I first heard you play, long before we actually spoke, I mentioned you to her — told her your music reminded me of something pure, something… untouched. She teased me for it."
Evelyn blinked, her breath catching. "So she knew I existed before you even talked to me?"
He nodded, reluctantly. "But I didn't know you then. I only knew your music."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The café's dim lighting painted their reflections in the window — two people sitting close, yet separated by something invisible.
Finally, Evelyn spoke softly, "Julian, I don't want to be someone's 'new start' if they haven't truly closed the old chapters."
Julian's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then let me prove to you that I have."
Her throat tightened. "How?"
He stood, walked around the table, and stopped beside her. "By not letting the past interrupt what's here."
She looked up at him, her heart racing. His presence was so warm, so steady — and yet something inside her still trembled, afraid to let the words in too deeply.
Julian extended his hand. "Walk with me?"
After a hesitant moment, she placed her hand in his. His fingers wrapped around hers — firm, reassuring — and they stepped out into the drizzle.
The night air was cool and soft, filled with the faint scent of wet roses from a nearby stall. London's streets shimmered under lamplight, reflections rippling on the wet cobblestones.
Neither spoke at first. The silence was heavy but not unbearable. It was the silence of two hearts trying to find the same rhythm again.
When they reached the small bridge near the river, Julian stopped. "Evelyn," he said quietly, "I can't promise life won't throw more of my past at us. But I can promise that I'll never let it define what's between us."
Evelyn gazed at him, her lashes glistening faintly from the rain. "I want to believe you."
He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. "Then start there. Just believe in now."
Their eyes met, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the noise of the world disappeared. The rain fell harder, but neither moved. When his forehead leaned against hers, she closed her eyes, letting herself breathe in the moment — the scent of rain, his quiet breath, the trembling peace that settled between them.
Then a voice called from behind them.
"Julian?"
They both froze.
Evelyn turned. Victoria stood at the edge of the bridge, holding an umbrella — her expression unreadable, but her eyes sharp.
"Of course," Julian muttered under his breath, straightening. "Not again."
Victoria's lips curved in a faint smile. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she said sweetly, though her tone suggested otherwise. "I just came to return something of yours."
She held up a small, silver locket glinting under the lamplight — one that Evelyn didn't recognize.
Julian's expression darkened immediately.
"Where did you get that?" he asked.
Victoria tilted her head. "From our old apartment. You left it behind."
Evelyn's heart sank. Apartment?
Victoria smiled wider. "Oh, did he not tell you we lived together?"
The rain fell harder now, and the world seemed to blur — Evelyn's breath caught, her chest tightening as the silence between the three of them turned unbearable.
Evelyn didn't move at first. The sound of rain on the river was deafening, drowning out the thudding of her pulse. The word apartment hung in the air between them like a ghost, pale and cold.
Julian's lips parted, as if to speak, but the look on Evelyn's face stopped him — a fragile stillness that looked too much like heartbreak.
"I think," she said quietly, "I should go."
"Evelyn—wait." He stepped toward her, but she took a slow step back.
"Please," she whispered, shaking her head. "Not right now."
Victoria stood a few paces away, still holding the umbrella, watching with that same knowing smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You can explain later, Julian," she said softly, feigning sympathy. "But she deserves the truth. Don't you agree?"
Julian turned sharply toward her, voice low and cutting. "You've done enough."
Victoria only shrugged and turned away, her heels clicking as she disappeared into the night.
Evelyn didn't wait to hear the rest. She turned and began walking briskly down the bridge, the rain soaking her hair, her dress clinging to her skin. Julian caught up in seconds, reaching for her arm.
"Evelyn, please—just let me explain," he said, breathless. "It's not what you think."
She turned to face him, her voice trembling but steady. "Then what is it, Julian? You told me she was part of your past — something you left behind. But now she's standing here with your things, talking about an apartment you shared—how am I supposed to believe that means nothing?"
Julian ran a hand through his wet hair, frustration clear in his eyes. "We lived together for a short time when I was stationed in London, before I was deployed. It was brief and complicated — she offered me a place when I had nowhere to stay after training. It wasn't love. It wasn't what we have, Evelyn."
She stared at him, her breath visible in the cold air. "Then why didn't you tell me? You had so many chances."
"Because it felt irrelevant," he said quietly. "I didn't want my past to be the shadow hanging over us."
Her eyes glistened. "But now it is."
He stepped closer again, desperate, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke. "Evelyn, look at me."
When she didn't, he reached out and gently lifted her chin. "You're the one I think of every morning when I wake up. The one I wait to hear from, the one who makes everything else fade. You have to know that."
Her breath hitched, her eyes searching his face — the sincerity, the rawness there. But her heart was too tangled to let the warmth win just yet.
"I need time," she whispered finally. "To think. To breathe."
He hesitated, then nodded, though the pain in his eyes deepened. "I'll give you that. But I won't stop hoping you'll come back."
Evelyn gave a faint, sad smile and turned away, the rain falling harder now, wrapping her in a curtain of silver. She walked until he disappeared behind her — until all she could hear was the soft murmur of her name fading with the wind.
---
That night, Evelyn sat by her piano, the one light in her small apartment flickering as she stared at the keys. Her fingers hovered, then pressed softly — a single note, then another. The melody that came out was fragile, uncertain, full of pauses — a reflection of her heart.
She didn't notice the tears until one fell onto the ivory key, blurring the note.
In another part of London, Julian sat alone in his car, the locket Victoria had returned lying open in his palm. Inside was a faded photograph — not of Victoria, but of his younger sister, who had died years ago. That was why he had kept it. Why he had refused to throw it away.
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Evelyn," he murmured to the empty air, "you have to believe me."
But the city around him was silent.
And Evelyn, across town, played on — her music drifting like a quiet ache through the rain.
For days, Evelyn tried to bury herself in her music.
Her mornings blurred into long, silent hours at the piano; her nights stretched into sleepless echoes of half-finished melodies. She told herself she was practicing for her next performance — but every note she played sounded like his name.
Julian.
Even Clara had noticed something was wrong.
"You've been off all week," she said one afternoon as they sat in Evelyn's small flat. "You're playing like someone who's trying not to feel."
Evelyn gave a faint, tired smile. "Maybe I'm just tired."
Clara frowned. "No. You're heart-tired. Which means it's about him."
Evelyn looked away. "Clara…"
But Clara wasn't the type to stop when things got uncomfortable. "What happened, really? You and Julian looked—" she paused, searching for the word, "—happy. I mean, properly happy. I saw the way you smiled when he texted you. It wasn't the usual Evelyn being polite smile. It was real."
Evelyn's fingers tightened around her teacup. "It was real," she admitted softly. "Until his past came back."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "His ex?"
Evelyn nodded, the single motion small and painful. "She showed up. She said things I wasn't ready to hear."
"Like what?"
"That they lived together."
Clara blinked, then groaned. "Oh, bloody hell. Men and their 'it didn't mean anything' speeches." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "And what did he say?"
"He said it was complicated. That she gave him a place to stay when he had nowhere else. He swore it wasn't love."
Clara was silent for a long moment, then sighed. "Do you believe him?"
Evelyn's voice trembled. "I want to. But I don't know how to trust what I can't see."
Clara reached across the table, resting a hand over hers. "Then maybe don't decide yet. Let time show you if he's worth it."
Evelyn nodded, though her throat ached.
That night, after Clara left, Evelyn found herself standing by her window, watching the rain trail down the glass. The city below glowed faintly through the mist — lights reflecting off wet streets. Somewhere out there, she knew Julian was still thinking of her.
She pressed a hand to her chest. The ache was constant.
Across the city, Julian sat in his room, staring at a blank sheet of paper. He had written and crumpled half a dozen letters already. Everything sounded wrong. Too desperate. Too rehearsed.
Finally, he set down his pen, stood, and reached for his phone.
He scrolled through his gallery until he found it — the photo he had taken of her weeks ago at the museum. She was standing by the Monet painting, her head tilted slightly, her eyes soft with wonder. She hadn't even known he was taking it.
He looked at that photo for a long while, then opened a new message.
> Julian: I won't ask you to forgive me. But I need you to know the truth about the locket. It wasn't hers. It was my sister's. She died before my first deployment. I never told Victoria because she never asked — she only assumed. I kept it because it's the only thing that reminds me of home.
Julian: You deserve honesty, Evelyn. Always.
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the send button — then pressed it.
Evelyn's phone buzzed on the piano as she practiced a slow Chopin piece. She glanced at it, the familiar name lighting up the screen.
Her pulse quickened. She read his message once. Then twice.
When she reached the part about his sister, something inside her cracked. She placed the phone down, covering her mouth as her eyes filled. The weight she'd been carrying for days loosened, but it didn't vanish — it just hurt in a different way now.
She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she went back to the piano. Her fingers trembled as she played, but this time, the notes weren't heavy. They were softer, lighter — like forgiveness trying to find its way into her heart.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
And far across the city, Julian leaned back, staring at his phone, waiting. Hoping.
But for the first time in days, both of them breathed a little easier — connected by silence, and by something stronger than pride.