Elara's new room smelled like old paint and unfamiliar dust.
It was small — one narrow window, a bed that creaked when she sat down, a dresser with a chipped corner — but it was hers. Temporary, yes, but quiet in a way the apartment with Marcus had never been. No expectations lived here. No pretending.
She placed her bag on the bed and sat beside it without unpacking.
For the first time in years, she felt something close to neutrality.
Not relief.
Not grief.
Just space.
---
Marcus noticed her absence three days later.
At first, he assumed she was working longer hours. That had always been the answer. Elara working somewhere, exhausted, invisible. When he opened the fridge and found it half-empty, irritation flickered — quickly followed by confusion.
He called her.
No answer.
He texted.
Where are you?
Hours passed.
At the office, Ethan leaned against Marcus's desk. "You look distracted."
"Just tired," Marcus said.
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "Everything okay at home?"
Marcus hesitated. It was brief, but it was enough.
"Yeah," he said. "Just busy."
Ethan didn't believe him. But he didn't press.
Power insulated Marcus from consequences — at work, at least. At home, the silence felt different. He had always assumed Elara would stay. That she had nowhere else to go.
That assumption began to crack.
---
Elara returned to the café a week later, not for work, but for quiet.
She chose the same table near the window. Ordered the same tea.
Luca was already there.
Not waiting for her — she knew the difference. He sat with a book this time, untouched coffee cooling beside his hand. When he noticed her, he didn't smile immediately. He gave her time to sit. To exist without being approached.
Then he spoke.
"You came back," he said.
"So did you."
He inclined his head. "Fair."
There was no flirtation in his posture. No invasion of space. He remained seated, voice calm, eyes observant.
"You didn't ask my name last time," she said.
"I didn't want to rush the ending of a conversation that hadn't started yet."
She considered that. "That's an odd way to talk."
"People say that."
"And yet you keep doing it."
"Yes."
She took a sip of tea. "My name is Elara."
"Luca," he replied. "It's good to meet you properly."
He didn't ask about her past. He didn't ask why she looked less tired than someone who worked too much should. He spoke instead about the city — about places people overlooked. Streets that changed after midnight. Cafés that survived because someone refused to give up on them.
He listened when she spoke. Really listened.
That alone unsettled her.
---
Across the city, Serena waited.
She had noticed Marcus's distraction — the way he checked his phone less, the way his replies shortened. The thrill of secrecy had thinned into something brittle.
"You're distant," she said one evening.
Marcus ran a hand through his hair. "Things are complicated right now."
She smiled tightly. "They always are when someone else exists."
He didn't answer.
For the first time, Serena wondered if she had mistaken attention for importance.
---
Elara didn't think about Marcus often.
When she did, it wasn't with bitterness. It was like recalling a job she had once held — exhausting, unrewarding, already over.
She took on extra shifts. Met Nina for cheap dinners. Let Miriam fuss over her without protest.
And sometimes, she sat in the café with Luca.
He never touched her.
Never pressured.
He showed up.
That persistence wasn't loud. It was steady. Intentional.
And slowly, against her better judgment, Elara began to notice something unfamiliar forming beneath the surface of her carefully controlled life — not longing, not fear, but interest.
She didn't fight it.
She had spent too long fighting things that were never worth the effort.