Selene's POV
The world slowed.
I couldn't hear the soft music playing in the background or feel the polished floor under my heels. All I could feel was the ache that bloomed suddenly in my chest—the kind of ache that only happens when something broken is suddenly made whole again.
"Ayra…" I whispered.
She stood there, eyes brimming, hair longer than I remembered, but still the same tilt to her head, still the same mischievous sparkle that once filled our childhood summers. I hadn't seen her since that last winter break—years ago—when everything went wrong and families stopped visiting. When distance became a wall instead of a bridge.
And now she was right in front of me.
I rushed toward her, arms wrapping tight, clutching her like if I let go, she'd vanish again. My eyes stung and a sound left my throat—a sob tangled with a laugh.
"You idiot," I choked out. "Where were you all this time?"
Ayra laughed into my hair. "Trying to grow up. Missing you every day."
We stood there for what felt like forever. No words, just the warmth of being found. Of being remembered.
Eventually, she pulled away and cupped my face. "You've changed, Selene. But your eyes… they're still the same. Soft and fire-filled."
I looked around, finally taking in the room—the art, the soft lights, the hidden details. Antonio. My gaze darted toward him. He stood near the door, trying to look casual, but I could see the way his hand trembled slightly at his side. He'd done this. All of it.
I walked toward him slowly, heart in my throat.
"You…" I said, half accusing, half breathless.
He scratched the back of his neck. "I wanted to give you something that meant more than... anything else."
"Antonio," I breathed. "How do you keep doing this?"
"What?"
"Surprising me. Fixing things. Reminding me that love isn't just in words—it's in actions like this."
He didn't say anything. He just smiled, then held out his hand. "Want to celebrate?"
I took it.
Because this was our story—one of crash and comeback, stitched with new beginnings. And tonight, I had my love and my lost best friend under the same golden light.
And I wasn't letting either of them go again.
Later that night, after laughter had danced through the gallery and Antonio had stepped out to grab coffee, Ayra and I sat together on a velvet couch tucked away in a quiet corner. The buzz of the small crowd faded into a warm hum around us.
We were side by side, knees touching, as if we could make up for years of separation by simply staying close.
"I was so angry at everyone," Ayra said softly, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "Our parents… the drama. The way they made us feel like pawns in a game of silent blame."
I looked at her. "You disappeared without a word. Not even a text."
"I know," she whispered. "I thought staying away would protect both of us. I didn't want to pull you into the mess."
"But you were never the mess," I replied, my voice firmer than I expected. "You were my anchor. My safe place. When everything fell apart, you were the one person who made it all feel okay."
Her eyes welled again. "I missed you every day, Selene. I kept your drawings, you know. The sketches we made for our boutique… I still have the one with the pink tulle and gold tassels."
I laughed quietly. "You said it looked like a cupcake."
"It still does," she smiled. "But I was serious about opening it one day."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Aunt Melinda misses you," Ayra said suddenly. "She never showed it, but she used to stare at your old photos. I caught her crying once."
My breath hitched. I hadn't spoken to Ayra's mom in years—not since the feud between our mothers had erupted like wildfire. Misunderstandings, pride, silence. That was our family legacy.
"I want to fix this," I said. "Not just with you—but with everyone. We've lived too long in the shadows of old grudges."
Ayra nodded. "Me too. Maybe this is the beginning. Maybe this is where we stop letting the past write our future."
I reached over and squeezed her hand. "We were meant to find each other again."
Just then, Antonio returned, two steaming cups in hand. He saw us, smiled, and sat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder like he knew this was sacred, unspoken healing. Like he knew love wasn't always grand—it was quiet, patient, and always showed up.
And so, under the soft gallery lights, with the scent of paint and coffee in the air, we weren't just friends or lovers—we were a patchwork family being sewn back together.