I didn't expect to see him there—at least, not like that.
The hotel lobby smelled of lilies and polished floors. The place was built to host beginnings afterall.
But the moment I saw him standing there, all I could think of was how different our ending are.
He was by the reception desk, looking through a stack of event folders. Hid brows are slightly furrowed the same way they always did when he was focused. The light from the chandelier fell across his shoulders, glinting against the edge of his wristwatch. For a second, I realized how time had only made him look steadier and more composed, like the years had been kind to him.
Five years hadn't changed Eli much. He still have the calm in his eyes and the quiet air that made everyone feel safe. Well, except for me. Because safety was the last thing I felt.
I frozed with my heels clicking against the marble as if to remind me I couldn't just disappear. He looked up at the sound, and that's when it happened—his gaze found mine, and the world shrank into that single heartbeat of silence.
"Lia?" His voice was soft and careful, as if saying my name might shatter something fragile between us.
But it did.
"Eli." I forced a smile, the one I used when pretending not to feel anything at all. "It's been a while."
"Five years," he said with out hesitation and pause. He's just stating a fact.
Five years, that was the exact count of days I'd spent convincing myself that leaving him was the right thing to do.
He closed the folder in his hand, and that's when I saw my name printed neatly in the corner.
Santos & Valdez Wedding.
My heart gave a small, traitorous lurch.
I wanted to laugh because of all the planners in the city, of all the people Daniel could've hired — it had to be him.
My brother hadn't told me. Of course he hadn't. He knew what Eli once was to me, what losing him had done. Maybe he thought it wouldn't matter anymore.
Eli took a step closer. The years between us vanished. "You look… different," he said, and though his tone was even, there was something else there. He was searching for something.
"So do you," I lied. Because he didn't, not really. His hair was a little shorter, his jaw more defined, but his eyes were the same. It see right through me and made me hard to breathe.
I gestured toward the folder in his hand.
"So, you're the one making everything perfect."
He gave a small, practiced smile. "It'll try."
The pause that followed wasn't long enough to be awkward, but it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things. Around us, bellboys and guests walked by — but I couldn't hear any of their footsteps.
"Congratulations," he said finally.
The word dropped like a stone in still water.
"Thank you."
We both knew it was a lie.
The silence stretched again. He adjusted his tie, looked down, then back at me, as if unsure whether to stay or walk away. And for a second, I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted him to know that I'd thought of him in every city I'd run to, in every song that sounded too much like goodbye. That I'd built a life that looked complete on the outside but hollowed me out inside.
But instead, I said, "You're doing great, Eli. I'm proud of you."
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're marrying him," he said quietly, "but every song still sounds like us."
The world stopped. The air, the music, the faint clinking of glasses from the bar all of fell away. For a single moment, there was just him and me, standing between what was and what should have been.
His words sank deep, pulling at every memory I tried to forget. The laughter, the late-night coffee runs, the quiet talks under the broken streetlight outside my brother's house started playing in my mind on repeat.
I blinked, forcing the tears back before they could betray me. "You shouldn't say things like that."
He tilted his head slightly. "Why not? It's true." .
"It's not," I whispered, even though I didn't believe it.
Then the elevator chimed behind me. A couple stepped out and their laughter echoed softly through the lobby.
"I should go," I said, adjusting the strap of my purse just to have something to do with my hands.
"Right," he murmured, taking a step back. "See you at the meeting next week?"
The word sounded so painfully ordinary.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges.
"See you."
I walked toward the elevator. My reflection in the mirrored walls caught the faint flush on my cheeks. My lips pressed into a tight, brave line. Behind me, I could feel his gaze, with the same itensity that once made me believe in everything impossible.
The elevator doors closed, sealing the moment in silence.
As I descended, I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath the entire time. My heart was still racing wild and unsteady, like it hadn't learned that love like ours wasn't supposed to survive the years.
But sometimes, no matter how far you run, certain names still echo inside you. Certain songs still sound like home.
And as the elevator stopped on the ground floor, one thought wouldn't leave my mind.
Maybe five years wasn't enough to forget him.
Maybe it never would be.