The evening of the event arrived with an undercurrent of anticipation Oryn couldn't quite shake. It wasn't the usual pre-event nerves—he had long grown accustomed to standing before a crowd, to the quiet hum of people gathering to hear words he had once written in solitude. No, this was something different. Something sharper.
He blamed Noa.
Ever since she had sauntered off with her cryptic smirk, leaving him with more questions than answers, his thoughts had been tangled in possibilities. Who was she sending in her place? Why had she spoken as if it mattered?
Oryn had spent too many years choosing his words carefully, understanding the weight they carried. Noa had chosen hers deliberately.
And now, as he stood at the edge of the stage, scanning the rows of seats filling up before him, he found himself searching. For what, he wasn't sure.
The venue was warm with the glow of overhead lights, the murmur of conversation blending into a comfortable hum. He nodded politely as familiar faces passed by, exchanged small greetings with organizers, signed a few early copies of his book.
But still, his gaze drifted.
Front row, Noa had said.
And then—
His breath hitched.
A woman had just taken the seat marked with Noa's name, tucking her coat over the back of the chair, oblivious to the way the world seemed to narrow around her.
Oryn didn't need to see her face to know.
It was in the way she moved, the way her fingers absently traced the cover of the program booklet, the way her shoulders carried a weight that didn't quite belong to the moment.
It was her.
Lana.
For a heartbeat, he did nothing.
Then, before his thoughts could catch up to him, before reason could tell him to walk the other way, he was moving.
The crowd faded into background noise as he stepped down from the stage, weaving through the aisles with a steady, measured pace.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
Oryn let himself pause at the edge of the row, let himself take in the sight of her up close for the first time.
She looked… different. And yet, entirely the same.
The quiet intensity in her expression, the way her eyes traced words as if she were memorizing them, as if they mattered more than the space around her.
She had no idea.
No idea that the very person who had once answered her words in ink now stood beside her, heart caught in the strange pull of a story neither of them had finished writing.
And just like that, something settled inside him.
He wasn't going to tell her. Not yet.
But maybe—just maybe—he would let his words find her again.