It had been six months.
The seasons had shifted. The cherry blossoms bloomed and fell again. Lila had moved to a new apartment, one with large windows and bare walls. Her book sat proudly on shelves across the city, its spine worn by countless hands.
But she had changed, too. Her poems now carried new weight—of solitude, resilience, and self-worth. Her voice had found a new strength, one no longer tethered to anyone else.
She'd spoken at literary festivals, mentored young writers, and signed a deal for her second book. Still, on quiet nights, she sometimes found herself looking out into the skyline, wondering if River was somewhere beneath the same stars.
One evening, after a packed reading in Brooklyn, she found a familiar face waiting outside the venue.
River.
He was older in the eyes. A little thinner. But the way he looked at her—like he never stopped seeing her—made her chest tighten.
"Hey," he said softly.
She didn't speak right away.
He held out a small brown envelope. "For you. If you want to read it."
She took it, fingers brushing his.
He stepped back, hands in his coat pockets. "I won't stay. I just needed to say that I'm back. And I'm… different now. I had to learn who I was. And I did. But not a day passed that I didn't miss you."
Lila stared at him, heart a riot of emotion.
"I'm not asking to pick up where we left off," River added. "I just wanted to give you this. And tell you I'm proud of you."
He turned and began to walk away.
Lila clutched the envelope. For a moment, she hesitated. Then—
"Wait."
He froze.
She walked up to him slowly. "Come to the café. Around the corner. We'll talk."
They sat by the window, mugs of tea between them. The tension was thick, but not bitter. There was something gentle in the space now, as if time had softened their wounds.
"Why now?" she asked finally.
"I saw your latest interview," he said. "Heard your voice. And I realized… the best version of me is the one who never stopped believing in you."
She studied him. "You hurt me, River. You left when I needed you."
"I know," he whispered. "And I've carried that every day."
She opened the envelope. Inside was a photo—her, on the rooftop under the cherry lights, but newly printed on textured paper. On the back, he'd written:
> "You were never just my muse. You were the light I followed home."
Tears pricked her eyes.
He looked down. "If there's a chance… even a small one… I'd wait. As long as it takes."
Lila didn't respond right away. She looked out the window, the city alive around them.
Finally, she smiled. "Then I guess you better start writing again."
River's eyes lit up. "You mean—?"
"I mean," she said, "that maybe this story isn't finished. Not yet."
Outside, the cherry lights flickered on. A sign. A beginning.