Weeks passed, but the ache did not soften.
Amara threw herself into work with a desperation that bordered on punishment. She volunteered for extra projects, stayed late long after the office lights dimmed, and filled every spare moment with productivity. Busy meant safe. Busy meant she didn't have to think about Elias's voice, or the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, or the quiet honesty of his confession.
She told herself she had done the right thing.
Distance was protection. For him. For herself.
Yet grief had a cruel sense of timing, and memory was not something she could schedule around.
The anniversary of Daniel's death arrived without ceremony, as it always did. The city moved as usual-cars honking, people laughing, life insisting on itself-while inside her, everything slowed to a suffocating stillness. At work, she stared at her computer screen, the letters blurring together until she could no longer pretend to function.
By noon, she left.
She walked without direction, coat unbuttoned despite the cold, letting the city swallow her. Every familiar street triggered a memory. Every passing couple felt like an accusation. She tried to breathe through the tightness in her chest, but it followed her relentlessly, heavy and unyielding.
By evening, exhaustion overtook pride.
She found herself standing outside Elias's building, hands trembling, heart pounding with shame and longing. She hadn't called. She hadn't warned him. She didn't even know what she wanted-only that the thought of going home alone felt unbearable.
She stood there for several minutes, debating whether to leave.
The door opened.
Elias stepped out, trash bag in hand, surprise flickering across his face before concern replaced it entirely. "Amara?"
Her composure shattered.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she whispered, voice breaking. "I tried. I really tried."
The trash bag dropped to the floor.
Without a word, he crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her. She collapsed against him, sobs tearing free with a violence she could no longer contain. Years of suppressed grief poured out-raw, unfiltered, unstoppable.
"I've got you," he murmured, holding her tightly but gently. "You don't have to be strong here."
And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe him.
