---
I thought knowing the truth would save me.
That if I just understood why he left—why Luca walked out of my life without explanation—maybe the ache in my ribs would stop humming like a sad song stuck on repeat.
But I was wrong.
Because the truth didn't feel like closure.
It felt like betrayal, in a new outfit.
It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and being told, "He jumped because he loved you."
Like that's supposed to make the fall hurt less.
---
I didn't cry again. Not after the letter.
Instead, I felt this cold kind of fury building inside me. The kind that makes you want to punch a pillow or scream underwater.
I thought of how he just decided I couldn't handle the truth.
How he disappeared and left me choking on assumptions.
How he made me the villain in his story without even asking what I wanted to be.
He said it was to protect me.
But maybe he just didn't believe in us enough to fight.
---
Zayne texted mid-morning.
> Want to meet at the gallery later?
I almost said no.
But instead, I typed:
> Okay.
---
The gallery was quiet when I arrived.
Low lighting.
Muted footsteps.
Paintings watching you like they knew your secrets.
Zayne stood in front of a canvas titled "Distance."
Two people painted on opposite ends of the frame, reaching—never touching.
He didn't speak as I walked up. Just glanced at me.
"Do you hate him now?" he asked.
I didn't expect the question.
I swallowed. "I don't know. Maybe. I hate that he didn't trust me with the pain. I hate that he stole the choice from me."
Zayne nodded.
"I wrote about you last night," he said quietly.
I looked at him, startled. "Me?"
He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. Handed it over.
I read:
> She doesn't cry like the others do,
She holds silence in her fists and calls it strength.
She paints storms because words betrayed her.
And I've never seen a girl look so shattered and still stand so beautifully upright.
I blinked back tears.
"Zayne…" I whispered.
He shook his head gently. "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… even your broken pieces are art."
---
That night, I called Isla.
"Meet me," I said. "One last time. I need the rest."
She agreed.
---
We met at a bookstore café on the west side of the city. It smelled like paper, cinnamon, and forgotten truths.
"Luca told you he was threatened," I said, sitting down across from her. "But who threatened him? Who would even care enough to destroy us?"
Isla hesitated. Then reached into her bag.
Pulled out a crumpled envelope.
Inside were three printed messages.
> "Your girl is getting too much press. You really think her paintings are that good? Walk away—or I'll walk through her reputation like a flood."
> "She paints grief. You'll be the next canvas."
> "Artists disappear all the time. You want to risk her vanishing into obscurity?"
The messages were unsigned. No phone numbers. No trace.
But they made my skin crawl.
"They were sent anonymously," Isla said. "From a burner account. But I have my suspicions."
"Who?" I asked.
She hesitated. "Thabiso."
I froze.
"Luca's brother?" I whispered.
She nodded. "They'd been fighting for months. About the band. About fame. About you. Thabiso thought you were a distraction—one that made Luca soft. And Luca knew he couldn't prove anything… but he was scared."
---
I left the café dazed.
Everything was unraveling.
Not just my heart—now, the past itself was peeling open like old wounds.
---
When I got home, Nia was sitting on the floor with candles lit. Her eyes were red. Her laptop was open beside her.
"Anesu proposed again," she said.
I blinked. "What?"
She laughed, bitterly. "Sent a voice message with a ring emoji and everything."
"What did you say?"
"I didn't respond. I don't think I want him back. I just… I wanted him to fight harder before. Not now."
I sat beside her. She leaned her head on my shoulder.
We didn't talk much after that.
Just sat with our grief.
Two women grieving two versions of love that could have been.
---
That night, I lay in bed rereading Luca's letter.
And I realized something.
The goodbye wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of a thousand questions.
A thousand versions of me trying to make peace with a story I didn't get to finish.
But maybe… maybe I didn't need to finish it.
Maybe I just needed to put down the pen, and walk away.
---