Time feels different after the truth. It became slower and heavier.
You start noticing things you used to ignore.
For days after that confrontation with Eli, I carried that silence everywhere. It followed me through meetings, through phone calls, through the clinking of glasses at dinner with Daniel.
Daniel noticed, of course.
We were sitting across each other in his apartment. He was scrolling through something on his phone while I stirred my coffee long after the sugar had dissolved.
"You're quiet," he said finally, eyes still on the screen.
"Just tired."
He looked up, a faint frown forming. "From what?"
"Work."
"You sure it's not something else?"
I forced a small smile. "What else would it be?"
He shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "You tell me."
I wanted to say it. I wanted to tell him about the conversation with Eli. I want to share the the truth, the confession, the ache that hadn't left my chest since that day. But the words stayed trapped behind my teeth.
Because what was I supposed to say? That my wedding planner still knew the rhythm of my heart better than my fiancé did?
So instead, I said, "I think I just need a break."
He reached over, resting his hand on mine. His touch was warm, practiced. "Then let's take one. We'll fly somewhere before the wedding. Japan, maybe? You love Tokyo."
I smiled, because that was what he wanted me to do. "Yeah. Maybe."
But when I looked at his perfect posture, his calm eyes, his always-knowing smile, I felt something cold crawl up my spine.
He was kind. Good, even. But everything between us felt like choreography.
And that night, while he talked about itineraries and flights, my mind kept drifting back to Eli's voice.
"I never stopped loving you, Lia."
The next morning, I found myself at the venue again.
I told Daniel I needed to finalize some design adjustments, but the truth was simpler — I just wanted to see if Eli was really there, or if my mind had turned him into a ghost.
He was there. Of course he was.
He was standing near the stage platform, reviewing blueprints with one of the staff. He looked up as I approached. His expression was neutral, but his eyes flickered, like something had just shifted inside him.
"Morning," I said, pretending my heart wasn't racing.
"Morning," he replied quietly. "You're early."
"So are you."
"I don't sleep much."
The honesty in that sentence cut through me more than it should have.
We walked through the setup together, talking about arrangements and guest seating, though the conversation kept straying toward everything we weren't saying.
"Daniel wanted more white roses for the aisle," I said.
He glanced up. "And you?"
"I think it's too much."
He smiled faintly. "That's ironic."
"What is?"
He hesitated, then looked away. "Nothing."
But I knew it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
He'd always had this way of saying things that didn't sound like accusations but still managed to pierce through me.
And then I started noticing the things I had tried to ignore. Daniel's phone was always turned away from me. There had been a faint lipstick stain on his collar one morning. A message from another woman had flashed on the screen before he could hide it.
I felt that distance growing. It's subtle at first, like a shadow in a sunlit room, but it was there. And suddenly, I realized that the life I had been building with Daniel was maybe already hollow.
We paused near the window where sunlight spilled over the tables. I reached out to touch one of the floral arrangements, tracing a petal between my fingers.
"They're perfect," I murmured.
He looked at me for a long time. "That's what scares me."
I turned. "What?"
"Perfection," he said softly. "It's a beautiful way to hide emptiness."
My breath caught. "You don't know anything about my life anymore."
He nodded. "You're right. But I still remember what your eyes look like when you lie."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I left soon after, making some excuse about a phone call. But instead of heading home, I walked aimlessly down the street until I found myself by the small café across from the venue — the one with chipped walls and good coffee.
The barista smiled when I ordered. "You've been here a lot lately," she said.
I smiled back weakly. "Guess I like the view."
From the window, I could see the building where Eli worked. He was still there, visible through the glass, moving with that calm focus that made the rest of the world feel slower.
It's strange, watching someone you used to love from a distance.
It feels like remembering in real time — like every blink replays a memory you thought you'd buried.
I sat there until the coffee went cold.
By evening, I returned to Daniel's apartment. He was on a call when I arrived, talking about suppliers, investors, timelines. His life was made of schedules and number, of things that fit neatly on spreadsheets, things that always added up.
Mine didn't. Not anymore.
When he hung up, he smiled at me. "Hey, you look pale. Rough day?"
"I'm fine."
He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're always fine. That's what I love about you."
I wanted to ask him what that meant. That I was easy? Convenient? Predictable?
Instead, I just said, "Thanks."
He kissed my forehead before going back to his laptop. And as I stood there, watching him type, I realized that this safety, this predictability had once been all I wanted.
But now it just felt like being underwater and breathing through glass.
Later that night, rain started to fall. It made the city blur into soft shadows and distant lights.
I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't let me.
So I drove.
The streets were nearly empty, the sound of rain filling the silence inside the car. I didn't have a destination in mind, but somehow, I ended up in front of the venue again.
The lights inside were dim, but one window on the second floor was still lit.
I didn't have to guess who was there.
I found Eli sitting at the piano in the corner of the ballroom. The sound of rain mixed with the faint, unfinished melody he was playing.
He looked up when he saw me. "You shouldn't be here."
"I couldn't sleep," I said softly.
He smiled faintly. "You never could when something bothered you."
I didn't deny it. I just stood there, listening to the way his fingers moved over the keys.
"What are you playing?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Just... remembering."
"Remembering what?"
He looked at me. "You."
The word broke something open inside me.
I walked closer, the sound of my heels echoing against the floor. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because they sound true."
He smiled sadly. "They are."
I looked away, my throat tight. "Daniel's worried about the schedule. He wants the setup done by Friday."
He didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "Do you love him?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Of course I do."
He nodded slowly. "Say it again."
I froze. "What?"
"Say it again. But this time, mean it."
My heart started to race. "Eli, stop."
"Because when you said it just now," he continued softly, "your voice cracked."
The tears came before I could stop them. "You have no right to—"
"I know." His voice was breaking too now. "I know I don't. But I can't keep watching you pretend this is enough for you."
I took a step back. "You don't get to decide what's enough for me."
He stood up, his expression pained but steady. "No, I don't. But I remember the girl who used to dream bigger than this. The one who said she'd never choose comfort over truth."
"I'm not that girl anymore."
"Then who are you?"
For a moment, I didn't know.
He stepped closer, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him. "You're not happy, Lia."
"I'm getting married," I whispered.
"To the wrong person."
The air between us went still.
I wanted to argue, to yell, to tell him he was wrong — but the truth sat heavy in my chest, unmovable and cruel.
He looked at me like he was memorizing the shape of me again. "If I had come back sooner…"
"It wouldn't have mattered," I said, my voice shaking. "I wouldn't have believed you."
"Maybe," he said softly. "But maybe timing isn't about when we meet. Maybe it's about when we're finally ready to be honest."
I stared at him, tears blurring my vision. "You think this is timing?"
"I think this is truth," he said. "And you've been running from it for years."
He didn't try to touch me. He just stood there.
The rain grew louder outside, drumming against the glass, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
I whispered, "I can't do this."
He nodded. "Then go."
But I didn't. I couldn't move.
Because some part of me — the part I had buried years ago wanted to stay.
Finally, I said, "If we were different people, Eli…"
He gave a small, broken smile. "We're not. We're just the same people who finally stopped pretending."
And in that quiet, the distance between us felt like both a heartbeat and a lifetime.
When I finally walked away, the sound of the piano started again. The melody lingered long after the last note faded.
And for the first time since I got engaged, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't just miss Eli.
I missed the version of myself that existed when I was with him, the one who wasn't afraid to want something real, even if it hurt.
That night, lying awake in bed beside Daniel, I finally understood what Eli meant. Timing wasn't just about when two people found each other. It was about when they stopped lying — to themselves, and to everyone else.
And as Daniel's hand rested over mine, perfectly in place, perfectly practiced, I realized that love built on convenience could only last so long before it started to crumble.
Because sometimes, the heart doesn't move on.
It just quietly, stubbornly wait for the right time to start beating again.
And maybe, just maybe, mine already had.