Even through the speaker, her voice is distinct—low, calm, a little flat. It's not cold exactly, but the warmth that used to color her words is gone, hidden under practiced composure.
"It's me. Julian," he says, his voice steady but low, careful.
"Yeah. I know," she replies. Short. Guarded.
Silence drapes over both ends for a moment like an invisible curtain. He knows exactly what she's thinking—why now? Why call after all this time?
Julian swallows down his hesitation. "I… I want to meet you. Talk to you. Please."
Another pause. Her breath faintly audible on the other side. He imagines her standing somewhere on campus, phone pressed against her ear, eyes staring down at the ground, thinking.
"All right. When and where?"
"Right now?"
There's a beat of hesitation before she answers, "All right. Caliver's Street Cafe. Outside of campus."
"Okay. I'll be there."
"Yeah," she says simply, and the line goes dead.
Julian exhales sharply. The call might have ended, but his heart hasn't settled yet. He shrugs on his black blazer, runs a hand through his slightly disheveled dark hair, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall.
Within ten minutes, his car glides into the gravel lot behind Caliver's Street Cafe. The sky is brighter now, blue patches breaking through the gray clouds.
As he pushes open the cafe's glass door, he feels the emptiness first. Odd. The place is usually at least half-full, but right now it's silent, chairs neatly tucked in, not even soft music playing.
It feels like stepping into a waiting room between two worlds.
He moves to the table by the window, his usual instinct. From here, he can watch the sidewalk, the curve of the street, hoping for that first glimpse of her.
No sign yet.
He checks his watch. Nothing.
And then—
"Professor?"
His head jerks up, startled by the softness of her voice.
There she is.
Grace.
Standing there like she's stepped right out of a memory and yet changed at the same time. She's wearing a loose white t-shirt, a red flannel shirt tied casually at the wrists, black pants. Simple, understated. Beautiful. More beautiful than ever.
She must've come through the back door. No wonder he didn't see her.
"Hi, Grace," he murmurs, awkwardly rising slightly from his chair.
She sits across from him, folding her arms gently as if bracing herself. She's calm. Too calm. But her eyes—there's something restless in them, a quiet hurt she's too strong to wear openly on her sleeve.
For a flicker of a second, Julian panics.
What if she's moved on emotionally?
But then—he stills his heart.
No. God has brought her here. Hannah of the past. Grace of now.
Chosen. Sent.
He breathes in deep. He's rehearsed this in his head a thousand times.
"Grace," he finally says, meeting her gaze fully, "I love you."
For a second, she blinks like someone surfacing from underwater. Then her gaze falters, drifting toward the floor, her lips parting but no words coming yet.
"I've liked you from the start," he says softly. "I was afraid… I thought I was protecting you by staying away. But now—I know that's not what I was doing. I was protecting myself."
She closes her eyes, as if steadying the swirling emotions inside her chest. When she opens them, a small smile finally forms.
"I love you too," she says simply. "And I think… you've been the one all along."
Remembering the simulation in his head—the moment he had imagined over and over again—Julian lets out the faintest grin. In that imagined world, he had been brave. He'd spoken every word with confidence, looked her in the eyes without hesitation, steady and sure of himself. And yet here, in the real world, beneath the golden afternoon light pooling into this quiet corner of campus, his heart was beating faster than he'd expected.
But he liked this moment better.
Because it was real. Messy. Full of hesitations, the weight of their choices hanging between them like unseen threads. And still—he was here. And so was she.
"So… what is it?" Grace asks with a light shrug, trying to act nonchalant, but her voice has that soft edge, that slight shift in tone that betrays a guarded curiosity.
Julian exhales slowly, steadying himself, a soft grin curling at the corner of his lips—not because he's amused, but because of the strange mix of nervousness and fondness welling inside him.
"Grace," he finally says, his voice lower now, almost careful, "I want to apologize."
Grace blinks. Her posture, easy and relaxed before, stiffens just slightly. Her eyes falter—not out of suspicion, but from the sudden tenderness in his voice that catches her off guard.
"For what?" she asks, quieter now, almost tentative, like she already knows but doesn't want to say it first.
Julian's gaze doesn't waver.
"For hurting your feelings."
Just five words. Simple. But heavy. Spoken not out of obligation—but truth.
And for some reason, those simple words land heavier in Grace's chest than she expected. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding in until now.
For a moment, she doesn't respond. Her lips twitch upward in a soft, almost apologetic grin of her own. "It's okay…" she says, brushing it off with that practiced lightness of hers. "I'm all right."
But Julian doesn't look away. He watches her carefully now—not with the analytical sharpness of a professor, but with the tender perception of someone who has begun to learn the quiet details of another person's heart.
And he sees it: the way she slightly averts her gaze, how she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as if to shield herself, the smile that's just a little too quick to form.
He knows now.
Grace is the kind of person who will always say "I'm all right" before she even knows whether she is or not. The kind of person who makes him comfortable before thinking of herself. And she's doing it even now—smoothing over the cracks, hiding the ache.
Julian's heart pulls at the sight of it.
She's trying. Trying to stay casual. Trying not to burden him with her hurt. Trying to let him off easy.
And for the first time, Julian realizes that knowing her is not just about understanding her smile, or her humor, or even her intelligence. It's about recognizing the gentle effort underneath. The strength it takes to appear unbothered when she's not.
Julian speaks in a low, steady voice, his tone soft but weighted with sincerity. "I've been afraid this whole time. Afraid that I might mess this up, that I would hurt you… or that I'd get hurt myself." He lets out a breath of laughter, small and self-deprecating. "I was a coward."
Grace listens, silent, her expression unreadable. Only her eyes betray her—focused, searching, steady.
Julian continues, the words rising from somewhere deep within him. "But now… now I know. I know how much you mean to me. These past few weeks without you—I felt it more and more. How much I like you. How much I…" His voice softens, the corner of his mouth curling into a tentative smile. "Love you."
Grace's heart stumbles, the rhythm quickening as if her very breath forgets how to behave. This—this is what she's been longing to hear, waiting for in moments both quiet and desperate. And yet now, hearing it spoken aloud, it feels almost surreal, like a dream reaching out to touch the waking world. Her lips part slightly, but no words come. She doesn't know what to say, what to do, only that the moment feels impossibly fragile.
Julian searches her eyes with his own, those dark, earnest eyes that always seem to see straight through her.
"Grace," he whispers, "will you give me a second chance?"
But in his heart, he knows—he's not just standing before Grace. He's standing before Hannah, the love from a life long past, the girl he's only just now realized lives again before him. Whether or not Grace is Hannah no longer matters. His feelings are no longer something he can bury or disguise. Even without that history, he would love her still. Because love—real love—is never something he can control.
And then—Grace smiles.
It's small at first, just the hint of a grin curling at the edges of her lips, but to Julian, it's enough to set his entire world alight.
"Yes," she says softly, the word filling the space between them like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "Yes."
At her smile, something inside him breaks free. It's not wild or chaotic—it's peaceful, steady and fierce at the same time.
He knows now. This is not some fleeting feeling, not some fragile hope stitched together by loneliness or chance. This is real. Undeniably real. The kind of reality that feels written long before either of them were born.
This is the kind of love that isn't stumbled upon—it's brought. Given. Woven by a hand far greater than their own.
It's the kind of love God gives when two hearts have waited long enough to finally find each other.