Ethan sat in front of his unfinished painting, staring at the canvas.
He tried to continue.
But his mind wasn't there.
Every time he lifted the brush—
every time he tried to make a stroke—
Zara's face slipped into his mind.
Uninvited.
Unwanted.
Clear.
Ethan froze.
His grip on the brush tightened slightly as he stared at the canvas, jaw clenched.
Not now.
He forced his hand to move—
A line.
Wrong.
His expression darkened.
He tried again.
Another stroke.
Still wrong.
Zara's smile flashed again in his head.
Soft. Effortless. Distracting.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once in front of the canvas before forcing himself back into place.
Focus.
Just paint.
It's just a painting.
But the moment he lifted the brush again—
Her voice.
Her eyes.
The way she looked at him.
"Fuck."
The word came out sharper this time.
His patience snapped.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
His voice echoed in the room, low but edged with frustration.
"I'm not like this."
Not distracted.
Not… affected.
Not because of her.
His grip tightened—
Then suddenly—
The brush slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
The sound was louder than it should have been.
Ethan stood there, chest rising and falling, staring at the unfinished canvas like it had personally betrayed him.
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
After a long moment, he let out a slow, controlled breath…
But the frustration didn't leave.
Because deep down—
He knew the truth.
It wasn't the painting.
It was her.
And that was exactly what pissed him off the most.
This wasn't working.
With a quiet sigh, he stood up and walked over to the sofa. He picked up his guitar, letting his fingers rest on the strings, hoping the familiar comfort would clear his mind.
It didn't.
Frustration crept in.
He tossed the guitar aside and fell back onto his bed, his arms folding behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.
Silence.
But his mind was anything but quiet.
He wasn't ready.
Not for this.
Not for her.
He thought he had forgotten her.
He really did.
But the night they met again—after all those years—
something shifted.
He didn't show it.
He never did.
But deep down, he knew exactly how he felt.
And this evening…
he knew she was there.
He just chose to ignore her.
Avoiding her had been easy—once.
Now?
He wasn't so sure.
How long could he keep doing this?
Did he still love her?
…Would he ever go back?
Every time he saw her, his heartbeat betrayed him.
Fast.
Unsteady.
Familiar.
And every time it did, it reminded him of something else—
of how badly he had been hurt back then.
That was the problem.
The past wasn't just a memory. It was a warning.
And he wasn't ready to walk down that road again.
⸻
Ethan stood by the window, his apartment quiet once again.
The city lights stretched far into the distance,
glowing softly against the night.
But he wasn't looking at them.
Above him, the moon hung quietly in the sky—
distant, calm, untouched.
He didn't know why…
but for a brief moment,
he just stared at it.
He was somewhere else.
Somewhere years behind.
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the curtain.
He didn't understand why tonight felt different.
He had spent years building distance—
carefully, deliberately—
as if space alone could erase everything.
But now…
she was here.
Not a memory.
Not a ghost.
Real.
Too real.
He let out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair.
"This was a mistake," he muttered under his breath.
Moving here.
Seeing her again.
Letting all of this come back.
He turned away from the window, pacing slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
His eyes drifted to a corner of the room.
A sketchbook.
Old.
Worn.
He hadn't touched it in years.
For a moment, he just stared at it.
Then, without thinking, he picked it up.
Flipped it open.
Page after page—
unfinished sketches
half-drawn flowers
fragments of a face he never completed
Until finally—
he stopped.
Her.
Zara.
A younger version.
Softer.
Smiling.
He froze.
His thumb brushed lightly over the page.
"You said you didn't like this…" he whispered.
His voice was quiet.
But something in it broke.
He closed the sketchbook quickly, as if it had burned him.
Then set it down.
Harder than he meant to.
Silence filled the room again.
But this time—
it felt heavier.
Ethan leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.
"She hasn't changed…" he murmured.
A pause.
Then softer—
"Or maybe… I'm the one who hasn't."
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
Then sat up, reaching for his phone.
Missed calls.
From his new client.
He stared at the screen for a moment—
grateful for the distraction.
Zara stayed in her room.
She stood by the window, pushing it open slightly. Cool night air slipped inside as she looked up at the sky.
The moon hung there—half-lit, quiet, distant.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Lost in thought.
"Missing someone?"
The whisper came right next to her ear.
Zara flinched, her heart jumping as she nearly screamed.
"What the hell, Zoe! Why didn't you knock?!"
"I did," Zoe said casually, stepping into the room. "You didn't respond. Not my fault."
Zara exhaled, annoyed.
"What do you want this time?"
Zoe tilted her head, suddenly softer.
"Ummm… can I sleep with you tonight?"
Zara didn't even hesitate.
"No way."
"Pleeease," Zoe dragged the word out, grinning. "And I'll tell you something."
Zara narrowed her eyes.
"What?"
"It's about our new tenant."
Zara turned back to the window.
"Who cares?"
Zoe smirked, climbing onto the bed and getting comfortable.
"Oh, there's something very interesting. You have the best pillows. Okay, ready? The new tenant... is a genius."
Zara paused.
"…What is it?"
"He's actually a really good painter," Zoe began, her voice full of excitement.
"Remember that exhibition we went to earlier this year? The one with the beautiful flower garden painting, the one you stared at for twenty minutes?"
Zara froze.
"That was him," Zoe continued. "His name is Ethan."
Zara turned sharply.
"What?"
Zoe nodded.
Zara didn't speak.
Her heart started pounding.
Hard.
He painted that…?
My favorite flowers…
Why my favorite flowers…?
No.
It probably didn't mean anything.
Zoe watched her carefully as Zara began pacing slowly around the room.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
"Hey…" Zoe frowned slightly. "What's wrong? Do you know him?"
Zara stopped.
She looked at her sister for a brief second—something unreadable in her eyes.
"Go to sleep."
"But I still have something to tell you. Please listen?" Zoe asked, undeterred.
Zara sighed. "What is it?"
Hoping it was about Ethan.
"About the book I'm reading," Zoe said, smiling. "I love the male lead so much. He's like my dream boyfriend…"
"Not now," Zara cut her off quietly.
Zoe froze for a second—then scoffed, turning away sulkily.
"Fine."
She pulled the blanket over herself.
Zara stood there for a moment.
Then she looked up at the moon again.
Its pale light slipped quietly through the window, resting against her skin like something familiar.
She didn't look away.
As if the moon might understand—
the things she couldn't say out loud.
And slowly…
her mind drifted somewhere else.
⸻
It was past midnight.
Zara was still awake.
Beside her, Zoe slept peacefully, completely unaware.
Zara turned to one side.
Then the other.
Sleep wouldn't come.
Her mind wouldn't quiet.
Then suddenly—
She sat up.
As if something had clicked.
Without hesitation, she got out of bed and walked to her wardrobe. Reaching deep inside, she pulled out a small, slightly worn box.
She hesitated for a second.
Then opened it.
Inside—
Letters.
Folded carefully.
And drawings.
Her fingers moved slowly as she picked one up.
Ethan's handwriting.
Ethan's sketches.
From high school.
She looked at them one by one, her expression softening without her realizing it.
Memories she thought she had buried…
were quietly finding their way back.
She traced one of the drawings gently, her fingers lingering on the lines.
Her chest tightened.
The past wasn't as far away as she thought.
Maybe it never was.
She thought she had locked those memories away.
Hidden them.
Forgotten them.
But tonight—
with his name echoing in her mind,
and pieces of him still in her hands—
Zara realized something she wasn't ready to admit.
She had never really let him go.
The letters trembled slightly in her hands.
What was she supposed to do now?
Go to him?
Pretend nothing happened?
Or walk away… like she did before?
Zara lowered her gaze back to the letters.
For a moment, she looked torn—caught between the past she couldn't forget and the present she didn't know how to face.
Then slowly…
she folded the letter.
Carefully.
Like something fragile.
Like something dangerous.
She placed it back into the box—
but didn't close it.
Her hand lingered there.
Still.
Hesitating.
As if part of her was waiting…
for something.
Or maybe—
for courage.