Chapter 17: The Ones that Got Away

Amara stood in front of the large, antique mirror that adorned her room.

It was a relic from a bygone era, but it added a touch of elegance to their art-deco apartment.

As the soft afternoon sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes, it illuminated the myriad of photographs spread out on her wooden dressing table.

She picked up a picture from her college years, with a man named Brian.

They both sported radiant smiles, bodies pressed together at a music festival.

The memory was like an echo; they had danced, laughed, and shared passionate kisses under the starry sky.

But as the music had faded, so had their connection.

Brian had been fun and adventurous, but he never really understood her.

Next was a photograph of Michael, an investment banker she had dated briefly after college.

He was sharply dressed and exuded confidence.

They had shared intellectual debates over glasses of fine wine, but there was always something missing.

He tried to mold her into his structured world, failing to appreciate the whirlwind of spontaneity that she was.

Her fingers grazed over more photographs, each with a story, each with a lingering 'what if'.

Yet, as she immersed herself in these memories, a persistent feeling gnawed at her — a feeling that none of them truly saw her.

None, except Declan.

She heard his soft humming from the kitchen, punctuated by the clinking of pans.

The comforting aroma of a familiar recipe wafted in.

Declan was preparing their favorite pasta dish.

The mundane intimacy of it all made her heartache.

"Amara?"

Declan's voice carried from the kitchen.

"Do you want garlic bread?"

She chuckled softly, thinking of how even in such simple questions, he knew her.

"Always,"

She replied, knowing that he was probably already putting it in the oven.

Taking a deep breath, Amara ventured into the living room, where Declan's art studio was nestled.

She quietly observed him from the doorway.

He sat, engrossed in sketching something on his canvas, his raven-black hair falling gently over his piercing blue eyes.

Without turning, Declan said,

"You know, it's rude to spy."

Amara smiled, her heart fluttering.

"How did you—"

"—know?"

He grinned, turning to face her, his sketchpad revealing a half-drawn portrait of her, lost in thought.

"I always know when you're around. Plus, your reflection was in the glass frame,"

He winked.

She walked over, leaning down to see the sketch.

"You've captured my daydreaming face quite well."

Declan's gaze met hers, intensity simmering beneath the surface.

"You've been distant today. Anything on your mind?"

Amara hesitated, biting her lip.

"I was just... going through old photographs, memories. Reflecting."

His expression softened, understanding dawning. "Past relationships?"

She nodded her voice barely a whisper.

"It's strange, Declan. Every relationship, every moment, and yet... none of them truly saw me. Not like you do."

Declan set his sketchpad aside, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

She buried her face into his chest, seeking solace.

"It's not about comparison, Amara,"

He whispered, his voice gentle.

"Everyone comes into our life for a reason, for a season. They all brought something, taught something."

Amara pulled back slightly, her expressive green eyes searching his.

"But why does it always feel like I'm seeking something they can't provide? Why do they always fall short?"

Declan hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

"Maybe it's not about them falling short. Maybe it's about what you're seeking. And perhaps... you're looking in the wrong places."

She looked down, contemplating his words.

The silence between them was thick with unsaid words, emotions running deep.

"Come on,"

Declan finally said, breaking the tension,

"the pasta will get cold."

Amara laughed, the sound light and melodic.

"God, Declan, food really is the way to your heart, isn't it?"

He winked.

"Only if it's shared with the right company."

As they settled down for their meal, the weight of the conversation lingered.

But in that space, in their art-deco apartment filled with memories, two souls found comfort in each other, bound by understanding and a love that ran deeper than words.

...

POV: Declan Blackwood

The sound of footsteps grew louder, and even without turning, Declan knew who approached.

The lightness in her step, the soft shuffle of her sandals, it was all Amara.

He felt an involuntary smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Declan?"

Her voice, as familiar as a song he'd heard a thousand times, still sent shivers down his spine.

He masked it, though, with a playful retort.

"Who else would be making your favorite pasta on a Wednesday evening?"

She chuckled, and he could picture her rolling her expressive green eyes in mock annoyance.

The thought made his heart flutter.

"Always trying to win me over with food, huh?"

"If it works,"

He teased, stealing a glance.

She was leaning against the doorframe, hazelnut hair cascading in soft waves, looking every bit the free spirit he had always known.

Every interaction, every shared joke, was bittersweet.

Her presence was both a salve and a sting.

It reminded him of all the things he loved about her and all the things he could never truly have.

But he cherished every second of it.

While they ate, he noticed she was somewhat lost in thought.

He wanted to ask, to dive into the depths of her mind and understand every nuance.

But he also feared being too intrusive.

When she finally opened up about her reflections on past relationships, a pang of jealousy surged through him, quickly replaced by empathy.

He listened intently, every word echoing the unspoken ones between them.

The pain in her voice was evident, and the urge to console, to assure her of her worth, was overwhelming.

And when she said,

"None of them truly saw me. Not like you do,"

His heart nearly stopped.

The implication, the weight of those words, was almost too much.

For a moment, everything blurred.

It felt like a confession, an acknowledgment.

But he also knew Amara.

She was speaking her truth, but perhaps not the truth he secretly hoped for.

Declan always walked a tightrope around Amara.

He yearned to express his feelings, to finally bridge the gap between friendship and the deeper emotions that coursed through him.

But fear held him back—fear of ruining what they had, fear of being another name she'd someday reflect upon.

He carefully chose his words, ensuring they were comforting yet ambiguous.

He couldn't let on just how much he cared.

Not yet. The unspoken words remained trapped, a persistent hum in the background.

After dinner, as she curled up on the couch with a book, Declan retreated to his art studio.

He stared at the sketch of Amara, her daydreaming face, the soft curve of her lips, the distant look in her eyes.

It was both a tribute and a confession.

A reflection of his obsession. He added gentle strokes, capturing every detail, willing the sketch to come alive, to whisper back his secrets.

Later, as they settled into their nightly routine of watching an episode from their favorite series, he felt her head rest on his shoulder.

The warmth and the proximity were both comforting and torturous.

Every fiber of his being wanted to pull her close, to express what words couldn't.

But tonight, like every other night, he settled for the silent echoes of unspoken words, and the hope that someday they'd find their voice.