Antonio's POV;
Her eyes locked with mine—calm on the surface, but I could see it. The storm behind them. The memories. The ache. And the hesitation. God, I'd put that hesitation there. I hated myself for it more than she could ever imagine.
I didn't expect her to overhear me yesterday. I wasn't ready for that. But I guess part of me hoped the universe would do something... anything... to make her hear me. Even if my words reached her through accident, not courage.
Now she was here. Asking the question I'd dreaded: "Was any of it ever real?"
And even though I answered with truth, I felt like a liar—for how long I let her believe otherwise.
I watched the way her jaw tensed, the way her arms crossed like a shield, and it made me realize something gutting—she still loved me, but she didn't trust me. That was worse than hate. Hate is loud, wild. But mistrust? It's quiet. Cautious. It doesn't give second chances. It watches from a distance.
I wanted to reach for her hand, to ask her what she needed me to do to prove I was no longer that confused boy. But I didn't. Because if I'd learned anything, it was that this time—she had to come toward me, willingly.
So I stood there, saying nothing more, just hoping… waiting… that she'd blink in a way that said she hadn't given up on me completely.
She didn't say a word after I spoke.
She just stood there, her expression unreadable—like a closed book with a title I used to know by heart, now rewritten in a language I'd forgotten. Then, with a quiet nod, she turned and walked away.
And I let her.
I didn't stop her—not because I didn't want to—but because I knew I had no right to chase her anymore. Not yet. She didn't owe me her forgiveness, her softness, or even her presence.
But damn, the silence she left behind… it was loud.
I leaned against the cold wall of the hallway, breathing in the echo of her perfume. How did it still affect me like this? How did I mess it up so badly?
I remembered the way she used to smile when I'd randomly call her at night. The way she'd glance at me in class when she thought I wasn't watching. Every tiny piece of her came rushing back like a flood—and now I was drowning in what-ifs.
I thought moving on would be simple—if I stayed away, let her heal. But seeing her again, stronger yet still haunted by what we were, made it clear: I didn't want to move on.
I wanted to make things right.
I wanted her.
Even if I had to wait a lifetime to earn her trust back.
Words weren't enough anymore—not with her. I knew that. So I stopped trying to explain and started showing up.
The next day, I found out she was giving a guest lecture on creative process at a small design college—part of her fashion side career. I didn't approach her. I sat in the back row quietly, notebook in hand, actually learning something. Watching her command the room, so full of grace and determination, only reminded me of everything I once took for granted.
After the lecture ended, she saw me—her eyes narrowing for just a second before she turned and walked out the other way. But she didn't look angry. She looked... unsure.
The next week, I volunteered at the hospital she was interning at as a nurse. No, I wasn't trying to be dramatic—I just figured if I really wanted to be part of her world again, I had to understand it.
So I worked.
Shift after shift.
I helped in small ways—organizing supplies, assisting with patient check-ins, even donating anonymously to the department where she worked. I never told her it was me. I didn't need credit.
I just needed her to feel that someone was in her corner. Without asking for anything in return.
Because for once—I wasn't chasing her to win her back.
I was standing beside her to prove that I belonged there.
Even if she never said a word again.