The sound of her name lingered in the air like the last note of a sad song.
Clara.
Mara's fingers loosened around her umbrella, the tip clattering softly against the floor. She wanted to move—to breathe—but the world seemed to slow around her. The chatter of the gallery faded into a dull hum, and all she could see was the look on Eli's face: that mixture of guilt, shock, and something deeper. Something unfinished.
Clara was the first to speak.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said, her voice calm but brittle. "I saw the photos online and… I had to see for myself."
Mara blinked. "You two know each other?"
Eli swallowed hard. "We—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "We used to. Clara was—"
"—his fiancée," Clara finished for him.
The word landed like thunder.
Mara's breath caught. She stepped back, the room spinning.
"Fiancée?" she repeated, almost whispering. "As in—you were engaged?"
Eli's jaw tightened. "I was. Two years ago."
The silence that followed was unbearable. People around them pretended not to listen, but their eyes flickered toward the storm unfolding between the photographs.
Mara turned to leave, but Eli caught her wrist—not tight, just desperate. "Mara, please. It's not what you think."
She stared at his hand on hers. "Then what is it, Eli? Because right now it feels like I walked into a story that already had an ending."
Clara looked down, her expression softening. "You don't have to explain, Eli. Not to me." She managed a faint, sad smile. "I just wanted to see that you're okay. You weren't, when you left."
Mara's gaze flicked between them, piecing together fragments she didn't want to see. "You left her," she said.
Eli exhaled, eyes closing. "She lost our child," he said quietly. "And I—" His voice broke. "I didn't know how to stay. Everything I looked at reminded me of what we lost. I ran."
The words shattered whatever was left of the air between them.
Mara's heart clenched, aching for him—and for Clara, and for the pain that still shadowed his eyes. But another part of her, smaller and sharper, whispered that maybe he'd run from her someday, too.
She pulled her wrist free. "You should talk to her, Eli," she said softly. "You owe her that much."
He took a step toward her. "Mara—"
But she was already walking away, her footsteps quiet but certain.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the street slick with reflections. The city lights wavered in the puddles like broken stars, and for the first time, Mara didn't wait for the rain to hide her tears.
That night, she stood by her easel again, staring at the blank canvas.
She wanted to paint him—his smile, his sorrow—but all she could see was the shadow of a woman who came before her.
With a trembling breath, she lifted her brush and whispered,
"Sometimes, loving someone means stepping out of their storm."
And with the first stroke of color, she began to let go.