Chapter 5 Fractures in the Glass

Aria walked out of the café with her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. The early evening breeze swept over her, cool and quiet, brushing her hair against her cheeks. Everything around her-the bustle of people, the sound of passing cars, the glowing streetlamps-felt surreal, as though she had stepped out of a dream and into a different world.

She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until she reached the corner of the street and exhaled shakily. Damien's words were still echoing in her ears.

"I never stopped loving you."

She scoffed under her breath.

Love? He had a strange way of showing it. Love didn't look like long, sleepless nights wondering what she had done wrong. It didn't feel like standing in an empty apartment with her heart ripped out, reading over a cold, unsigned divorce paper he had mailed without a single conversation. Love didn't leave without an explanation.

And yet, sitting across from him earlier, something in his eyes had whispered of pain, of loss, of longing. And that whisper was louder than all the logic she'd built like armor around herself.

Still, she had changed. She had become a woman who didn't let words sway her-not anymore.

Her phone buzzed in her purse. She pulled it out and frowned at the screen. It was Sam.

Sam: How did it go? Do I need to bring wine or ice cream?

A small smile tugged at her lips. Sam had been her anchor through the worst of the heartbreak. Her roommate, her cheerleader, her sister in everything but blood.

Aria: He said he still loves me.

The typing bubbles appeared, then vanished. Appeared again.

Sam: Do you believe him?

Aria didn't reply. Because she didn't know the answer.

Back at their apartment, Aria dropped her bag on the couch and sank into the cushions, her head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed in around her.

Moments later, the front door swung open, and Sam stepped in, still dressed in her nurse scrubs, hair piled up in a bun, holding a bag of takeout and a bottle of wine.

"God bless Thai food and Sauvignon Blanc," she declared, toeing off her shoes.

Aria sat up, trying to smile.

Sam dropped the bag on the coffee table, then took one look at her friend and plopped down beside her. "Okay. Spill. All of it."

Aria hesitated. "He apologized."

Sam snorted. "He should. A billboard apology wouldn't be enough."

"He... said he regretted leaving me."

Sam paused, studying her friend's face. "And?"

"And he wants to make things right."

Silence hung for a beat before Sam asked, "Do you want him to?"

That was the question. The real one. The one she hadn't let herself ask yet.

"I don't know," Aria whispered.

Sam leaned back, reaching for the wine. "I think you do."

Aria didn't respond. Because deep down, she did know. Part of her hated how easily her heart had fluttered when he spoke. How just hearing him say her name again brought tears she didn't want to shed.

"I don't trust him," Aria finally said. "I don't know if I ever could again."

Sam poured them both glasses. "Good. Keep that energy. But also..." she gave her a look, "don't lie to yourself about what you feel. You can't heal from a wound you're pretending doesn't still ache."

Aria took the wine. "Since when did you become so wise?"

"Since your billionaire ex-husband decided to show up and throw a wrench in our peaceful, emotionally uncomplicated lives."

They both laughed.

Two days later, Aria stood in front of her studio's floor-length mirror, adjusting the hem of her blouse. Today was the day of the gallery exhibit-the one she'd been preparing for over the last four months. Her photography series, Fractures in the Glass, was finally ready for the world.

And Damien was going to be there.

He had found out through mutual connections. Said he wanted to see what she had built.

She didn't want to admit it, but she had dressed with him in mind.

The gallery buzzed with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter as people moved through the curated collection. Aria stood near the back, sipping champagne, watching her work speak for her. Black-and-white portraits, intimate moments frozen in time. Some raw. Some beautiful. Some broken.

"These are powerful," a voice said behind her.

She turned. Damien stood a few feet away, dressed in a dark navy suit, no tie, shirt slightly open at the collar. He looked both completely out of place and somehow like he belonged.

"Thanks," she said cautiously.

His eyes moved from her to the nearest photo. A woman, looking away from the camera, her face partially reflected in a cracked mirror.

"That one's titled What Was Left Behind," Aria said, her voice quiet.

Damien looked at it for a long moment. "It feels... familiar."

She raised an eyebrow. "It should."

His gaze shifted to hers. "Is it me?"

"No," she said, lips twitching. "It's me. After you."

He winced slightly but nodded. "It's beautiful. In a devastating kind of way."

Aria turned back to the crowd. "Pain makes good art."

"Then you must have made a masterpiece."

Her throat tightened. She took another sip of her drink. "I didn't ask you to come tonight."

"I know. But I needed to see it. I needed to see you. In your element. Doing what you love."

She glanced at him, softening despite herself. "I am doing what I love. I've built something I'm proud of, Damien."

"And you should be. You're... remarkable, Aria."

He said it like it hurt to say. Like he was looking at something that was once his and now belonged to the world.

She watched him quietly. "You left before you got to see this version of me."

"I know," he whispered. "And I regret it more than you'll ever know."

For a moment, they were just two people in a room full of strangers, caught in the tension of what was and what could have been.

"You can't undo the past," she said.

"I know," he replied. "But I'm not here to undo it. I'm here to prove I've changed."

"And if I'm not interested in looking back?"

"Then I'll spend every day trying to give you a reason to look forward-with me."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her chest was too full of emotion-old wounds and new questions all tangled together.

So she walked away-graceful, composed, proud.

But her heart stayed behind, standing still in front of that cracked mirror