When something ends, it doesn't always explode.
Sometimes it just… exhales.
That was what the morning felt like.
I didn't remember falling asleep. The last thing I knew, I was driving with headlights cutting through sheets of rain, my fingers tight around the wheel, my heart somewhere between fury and numbness.
When I woke, the world was pale and still. The rain had stopped. The sky was the color of bruised lavender.
I was parked by the bay.
The waves moved slowly, heavy with dawn. My coat was still damp from last night, my phone silent on the passenger seat except for the hundreds of unread notifications waiting to drag me back to reality.
Daniel.
My mother.
Matteo.
I didn't open any of them.
The truth was I didn't want to hear anyone's voice. Not yet. Because I didn't know how to explain what it felt like to finally see everything clearly.
The man I was supposed to marry had someone else And the man I'd spent years trying to forget… never really left me.
My reflection in the car window looked foreign. It's pale, tired, and almost weightless like someone who'd already said goodbye, even if the words hadn't been spoken yet.
The air outside was cold when I stepped out.
I stood by the railing, watching the gray water fold into itself. Somewhere out there was the horizon, blurred and unreachable.
It reminded me of how Eli used to play piano, the way every note felt like an ache you couldn't name.
I didn't plan to see him again.
Not today. Not when everything inside me was still so raw. But some truths have a way of pulling you back to where they began.
Before I knew it, I was driving again with no destination. Just instinct.
And somehow, instinct led me to him.
The studio was quiet when I arrived. I was tucked behind a line of old bookstores and cafés that hadn't opened yet. The windows were fogged, the lights are dim. I could see his silhouette through the glass, seated at the piano,.with his head bowed and hands still.
I stood there for a long moment, just watching.
He hadn't changed much.
Same shoulders that carried too much.
Same hair falling into his eyes.
Same stillness that used to calm me, then break me.
When he finally noticed me, he didn't move right away. He Just blinked like he was making sure I was real.
Then, quietly, he stood and opened the door.
"Lia."
He uttered just my name and nothing more. But somehow, it was enough to make my eyes sting.
I didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded. He looked at me and his expression softened. "You've been crying."
I laughed weakly. "Everyone keeps saying that lately."
"Because you have."
He stepped aside to let me in. The room smelled faintly of rain and wood polish. There were sheets of music scattered across the piano, some half-written, others old.
I noticed a coffee cup beside the stool. It's still warm. He'd been here all night.
"Why are you here, Lia?" he asked softly.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Because how do you explain something like this? That you drove through the rain at 2 AM not to find answers, but to stop pretending?
"I didn't know where else to go," I finally said.
He nodded slowly, like he understood. "Sit."
I did. The chair creaked under my weight, the sound oddly grounding. Eli leaned back against the piano, crossing his arms.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
"I found out about Daniel," I said quietly.
He didn't react right away, but his jaw tightened slightly. "What happened?"
"He cheated." The words came out flat. Too calm. "There was a message. I saw it."
He looked away, exhaling. "I'm sorry."
I shook my head. "Don't be. I think… I already knew. Just didn't want to believe it."
His eyes found mine again, filled with that kind of gentleness that hurts more than anger. "You didn't deserve that."
I laughed under my breath. "Maybe I did. I wasn't exactly faithful either — not in action, but in thought."
I hesitated. "You've been in my head for months, Eli. Even when I tried to erase you."
He closed his eyes briefly, like hearing that was both a blessing and a wound.
"Lia, I never wanted to make your life harder."
"You didn't. I did that to myself."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time. It was real. It sat between two people who've run out of ways to lie.
"Do you remember that night by the bay?" I asked suddenly. "The one before I left?"
He nodded. "You said you didn't believe in forever."
"And you said love doesn't need forever to be real."
I smiled faintly. "I thought you were just trying to sound poetic."
"I was," he said, half-smiling. "But I meant it."
I looked at him. His hands fidgeted slightly. He looked human again. Not the perfect memory I'd been punishing myself with all these years.
And in that moment, I realized I wasn't angry anymore. Just… sad. Sad that we were here — two people who once promised everything, now too careful to promise anything at all.
He sat down at the piano, pressing one quiet note.
Then another.
The sound filled the room like breathing.
I closed my eyes.
"I used to hate this song," I whispered. "It reminded me of you."
"Why?"
"Because it was ours."
He didn't answer, just kept playing slowly, softly — until the notes felt like something fragile trying to stay alive.
And then I broke.
Completely, this time.
Not because of Daniel. Not because of betrayal. But because after everything, after all the pretending and distance, this still felt like home.
I didn't even realize I was crying until Eli stopped playing and reached out, his hand brushing my cheek.
His touch was careful, hesitant as if afraid I'd disappear.
"Lia," he whispered. "You don't have to hold it in."
That was all it took.
The tears came harder, quiet but unstoppable.
He pulled me close, my forehead against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat. For a moment, it felt like time folded in on itself.
Like nothing had changed.
Like we were still those two people beneath the city lights, believing love could fix everything.
But it couldn't.
And that was the cruelest part.
"I'm scared," I whispered against him.
"Of what?"
"Of feeling everything again."
He took a shaky breath. "Then feel it anyway. Even if it hurts."
"I don't know how."
He smiled faintly. "You already are."
I looked up at him, eyes wet, heart trembling. "I shouldn't be here."
"Maybe not," he said. "But you are."
He leaned closer then — slowly, like giving me time to pull away.
I didn't.
Our lips met, soft and unsure. .
When I pulled back, I was shaking. "I can't do this."
He nodded. "Then don't. Just stay."
We didn't speak for a long time after that.
He went back to playing, and I sat beside him, listening to the music, the rain, the silence that had finally stopped feeling like punishment.
I thought about Daniel. About the life we'd built out of safety and logic. About how easy it was to confuse stability with love.
And I thought about Eli, how loving him never felt easy, but always felt alive.
Maybe that was the difference. Maybe love wasn't supposed to feel safe. Maybe it was supposed to burn a little, to shake you, to remind you that you're still capable of being moved.
As dawn slipped through the window, painting the room in soft gold, Eli stopped playing.
He looked at me. "What are you going to do?"
I didn't answer right away.
Because I didn't know.
Finally, I said, "I think I'm done pretending."
He nodded. "Good."
I smiled faintly. "I don't know what comes after that."
"Maybe that's the point," he said quietly. "You don't have to know yet."
Outside, the city began to wake. I can hear cars and voices. The smell of rain is fading into morning.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel trapped between what I owed and what I wanted.
I just felt… real. It's unsteady, but free.
As I stood to leave, Eli reached for my hand, not to stop me, but to anchor me for one last second. His fingers were warm against mine.
"Lia," he said softly, "whatever happens next, don't go back to being half-alive."
I nodded. "I won't."
When I stepped outside, the light was gentle. The air smelled like beginning. And as I walked toward my car, I realized something simple, something terrifyingly honest:
Maybe breaking wasn't the end.
Maybe it was how I began again.