The flat felt different without him.
It wasn't empty—his scent still lingered on the cushions, his toothbrush still stood awkwardly beside hers—but it was undeniably quieter. Olivia moved through it like a ghost through a memory, touching everything and nothing all at once.
She kept the windows open. Let the wind in. Let the silence grow roots.
It wasn't grief she felt. Not exactly. It was something subtler—like longing wearing a softer coat. A gentle ache instead of a sharp wound.
She began to write again.
Not for publication. Not for anyone else.
Just for herself.
Late at night, she'd curl up in Kael's old jumper, open her journal, and spill pieces of herself onto the page: old memories, imagined futures, fragments of conversations she wished she'd had. There was something strangely liberating in the solitude. For once, she wasn't loving someone else more than herself.
A week after he left, a letter arrived.
Handwritten. No return address. Just her name in his sharp, slanted handwriting.
She hesitated before opening it.
Liv,
It's raining here today. The kind of rain that doesn't bother with thunder or flash—just a quiet drizzle that stays long enough to be noticed. It reminded me of you. Of the first day I met you. You looked out the window like you were listening to something no one else could hear. I wanted to ask what song the rain was playing. I still do.
The days here are full—gallery meetings, editing, cold coffee in paper cups—but I find moments to pause. I pause when I see lavender. When I hear Nina Simone. When I pass secondhand bookstores. I carry you in these pauses.
I hope you're still writing. I hope you're eating well. I hope your mum is stronger.
Mostly, I hope you haven't forgotten how bright you are. Even on your worst days, you glow.
I'll be back soon.
K.
Olivia read the letter three times before folding it carefully and tucking it into her journal.
That night, she didn't cry.
She danced.
She put on her favourite playlist, lit a candle, and moved through the living room like her body remembered something her heart had forgotten—joy. Not the reckless kind. The slow, sure kind.
The kind that came not from someone else staying, but from herself returning.
A few days later, Aiden called.
She stared at the phone for nearly a minute before answering.
"Olivia."
"Hello, Aiden."
He exhaled, like hearing her voice grounded him. "I'm in London. I was wondering if… if you'd like to talk."
She hesitated. "About what?"
"About us. About what I should have said. About what I still want to say."
"I don't think there's an 'us' to talk about."
A pause. "Then let's talk about closure."
They met at a small café in Soho, both wearing black coats, both more careful than they'd been before.
Aiden looked older. Not in the lines of his face, but in the way he held his gaze—less cocky, more thoughtful.
"I was selfish," he said, after their coffees arrived.
"I know."
"I thought you'd wait forever."
"I almost did."
"I loved you," he added quietly. "But I didn't know how to love you right."
Olivia nodded slowly. "We were two broken people looking for glue in each other."
"I still think about you."
"And I still think about the girl I used to be."
They both smiled, bittersweet.
When they parted, it was with a hug that held no promises.
That night, Olivia stood on her balcony and let the chill wrap around her. She looked up at the stars and whispered thank you—to no one in particular, to the universe, maybe to herself.
Thank you for not letting the heartbreak harden me.
Thank you for showing me that I could love and leave and still be whole.
She didn't know what the next chapter would bring.
But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid to turn the page.