The apartment felt bigger without him.
Not physically — Ethan had never officially moved in — but somehow, in the weeks since their last conversation, everything felt hollow. The couch didn't hold warmth. The kitchen echoed. Even the air around her carried a hush she couldn't fill with music or noise.
Ava sat curled on her sofa one Friday night, wearing his hoodie like armor, scrolling through photos on her phone she had no business reopening. The rooftop. His smile across the pillow. That ridiculous selfie they took in the rain when he insisted on walking instead of taking a cab.
She hadn't replied to his last message.
She hadn't opened the one before that.
There had been no argument, no final goodbye — just silence. The worst kind. The kind that says this might be over, but neither of us wants to say it.
Her schedule was relentless. Petra had thrown her into a whirlwind of calls, design meetings, client dinners. The Madison Bloom campaign was snowballing into something much bigger than they'd imagined. Just yesterday, Ava had received formal notice: she was expected to relocate to New York within the month.
She hadn't told anyone yet. Not even her mother.
Because deep down, she didn't know if she'd accept.
She wanted to. She should want to. This was the moment her entire career had been building toward. It would mean credibility, visibility, a fast-track to creative director roles across the globe.
But for the first time in her life, ambition didn't feel like enough.
Late that night, she wandered into a quiet wine bar off Charlotte Street. The kind of place where no one asked questions, and the music was low enough to drown thoughts without words. She wasn't sure what she was looking for — distraction, maybe. A sense of herself. A moment to remember what it felt like not to ache.
She sipped something dry and red, half-listening to the couple next to her talk about holidays and awkward family dinners.
Her phone vibrated again.
Ethan: Hope you're okay. Just wanted to say… I'm still here. If you ever want to talk.
She stared at it for a long time. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
In the end, she put the phone down.
She wasn't ready. Or maybe she didn't know what she was ready for.
Across town, Ethan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of his phone screen flickering beside him.
He'd thrown himself into work too — a new fashion campaign, editorials lined up, agencies chasing him with modeling contracts that had nothing to do with Ava. And yet… she was everywhere. In every light test, every styled shot, every moment of quiet between camera clicks.
He told himself not to wait.
But he was.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Then another.
And on a Monday morning, as Ava waited at the terminal to board her flight for a short scouting trip to New York — not the full move, just a taste — she opened his message again.
Still here.
Still waiting.
She closed her eyes, heart heavy.
And hit reply.
Ava: I miss you. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Can we talk when I get back?
The reply came instantly.
Ethan: Always.