part 22 : a melody she heard before

Fiona lingered for a second too long.

His smile didn't falter—not a twitch, not a flicker of expectation—but something in the way he looked at her felt too steady. Too knowing. Like he could see not just her face, but the things she kept locked behind it.

She quickly looked away, trying to hide the sudden rush behind her ribs. She pretended to watch the birds pecking at breadcrumbs by the fountain's edge—tiny, oblivious things that didn't carry the weight of memory or pain. But her pulse betrayed her. Thudding wildly against the cage of her chest like it wanted to escape.

This feeling… it was dangerous.

That soft unraveling inside her. That flutter that wasn't quite fear and wasn't quite hope. She'd known it before. When someone else had smiled at her like she mattered more than the world. When someone else had reached for her hand with promises dipped in honey and ruin. Eyes like wildfire. Lips like lies.

No.

She wasn't falling again. Not this soon. Not this easily. Not for a man with a cello and a scar and words that made her feel like poetry instead of a person.

He stood slowly, slinging the cello case over his back in one smooth motion. There was something effortless in the way he moved, like his body had known sadness and turned it into grace.

"You look like someone who carries a storm behind her eyes," he said, his voice quiet—like he wasn't trying to impress her. Like he was just… telling the truth.

Fiona raised an eyebrow, swallowing the lump in her throat. "And you look like someone who's read too much poetry."

His laugh was low, rich, almost lazy. "Touché."

She turned then, trying to keep her stride even as she walked away. But her heart was pounding so loud she swore the birds could hear it. Her fingers curled into fists by her sides, trying to ground herself. Don't turn around. her mind chanted. Don't look back. Don't give in.

But then—his voice came again, casual, almost teasing. "If you ever want to hear that cello in a quiet place… there's a bookstore on the hill. Open terrace. I play there every Friday. No crowd. Just music."

She paused. Just for a breath. Her back still to him.

"Thanks," she said, the word barely above a whisper.

Then she kept walking.

Her shoulders were drawn tight, and her steps had lost the calm confidence she wore that morning. Every step away from him felt both like relief and regret. Like safety and surrender. She hated that his voice still echoed in her mind—soft, warm, uninvited.

Because a part of her wanted to go. Wanted to sit in the sun and listen to him play where no one else would hear. Wanted to see if that scar had a story. If his tattoo meant rebirth. If his quiet eyes could really see her.

But there was another part.

A part still raw. Still healing. A part that had crawled out of wreckage and sworn never to let someone walk in so easily again.

Let him chase, she thought.

Let him try.

If he wanted in, he'd have to earn his way through every wall she'd built.

Because she was done being the one who always gave, always bent, always bled first.

If he wanted her story, he'd have to read every page, not just skim the cover.

And as she disappeared down the winding street—waves crashing faintly in the distance, sea air brushing her skin—she allowed herself a small, secret smile.

He wasn't her beginning.

But maybe, just maybe…

he'd try to be part of her next chapter.