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It rained that morning.
Not the kind of rain that drenches. The kind that lingers—misty, uncertain, like even the sky was afraid of being too heavy.
I stood in the doorway of my studio, a bag packed, a train ticket in my hand.
Durban.
That was where Isla said Luca might be.
I had the address.
The one she'd begged me not to use unless I was sure.
Unless I wasn't going to "ask for him back," but simply… say goodbye.
But what did goodbye even mean now?
After everything?
---
Josh showed up as I zipped my suitcase.
"You really going to find him?" he asked quietly.
"I'm not sure," I said.
He looked at me the way Zayne once did—like he could see the part of me that was breaking and blooming at the same time.
"You don't owe him anything," Josh said gently.
"I know," I replied. "But maybe I owe myself the ending."
---
At the train station, I stood in line.
One step from boarding.
One step from a thousand unspoken words.
And then I walked away.
---
I didn't get on the train.
Not because I was afraid.
But because, in that moment, I realized I didn't need to chase the version of Luca that was already fading.
He gave me his reason.
He gave me his silence.
And now, I would give myself the permission to move forward.
---
Instead of traveling, I walked.
Through old parts of the city.
Past the café where we used to sit and write poetry on napkins.
Past the alley where he kissed me the first time and said, "You're dangerous in all the right ways."
I didn't cry.
I just… kept walking.
---
When I got home, Zayne was on my doorstep.
Not with flowers.
Not with a speech.
Just a journal in his hands.
"I heard you were leaving," he said.
"I almost did," I whispered. "But I realized… closure isn't something he can give me. It's something I have to take for myself."
Zayne exhaled—relieved, maybe. Or respectful of my choice.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
And I believed him.
---
Later, I opened his journal.
He'd bookmarked a page.
> She didn't chase the past.
She turned around and painted the road ahead.
And for the first time, her feet didn't shake.
---
The next morning, I posted my first new piece on my art page.
Title: "The Woman Who Stayed."
The caption read: "Not for him. For herself."
The response? Explosive.
Not because it was about Luca.
But because… it was about every woman who'd ever been left and learned to rise anyway.
---
Nia called that night.
Cape Town sounded good in her voice.
"You sound like someone who finally burned the last letter," she said.
"I didn't burn it," I replied. "I just stopped reading it like a love story."
She laughed. "God, I missed you."
"I'm back," I said. "But I'm not the same."
"Good," she replied. "Don't ever be."
---
And then came the final letter.
From Luca.
One line.
> If you ever forget me, I'll understand. But I'll never stop remembering you the way you looked when you first believed in me.
---
I didn't respond.
Because for once, I had nothing left to say.
And that silence?
It was peace.
---