Past Lives and Present Tension

Rain fell that night like the sky was mourning with her. Mira sat by the window of her old bedroom, legs curled under her as droplets raced down the glass. She hadn't returned to the city yet. Part of her couldn't bear the thought of her father not being there when she walked through the front door.

The funeral had been a quiet one—just family, a few neighbors, and the local priest. Noah had stayed away, as promised. He hadn't pushed, hadn't texted after their café talk. But his silence wasn't distant; it felt like space being held for her.

Mira exhaled.

Just then, her phone buzzed.

Noah: You awake?

She hesitated… then typed:

Mira: Yeah.

Noah: Check your email.

Curious, she did—and found a short video. She hit play. It was a digital art piece he'd put together using clips from her old design projects. Smooth transitions, color palettes that echoed her style, even background music that matched the tone of her past work. At the end, his voice came through:

"You haven't lost your touch. You've just lost your light. When you're ready, let me help you find it again."

She blinked fast, swiping at a tear.

She didn't reply, but she didn't need to. He'd understand.

—

When she finally returned to the city a week later, everything looked smaller. Her apartment, the streets, her old office building she couldn't step into. But it was Noah she ran into first—again. Only this time, it didn't feel like an accident.

He was at the design expo she forced herself to attend, standing by a booth, sleeves rolled up, gesturing passionately about a concept design. He didn't see her at first. But when he did, his entire expression changed.

"Mira."

"Noah."

He looked at her like she'd surprised him. "Didn't think you'd show."

"Didn't think you'd be here."

"I helped a friend with some branding," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wasn't sure you'd want to run into me again."

"I'm still deciding," she replied, lips curving.

He laughed, low and nervous. "You look… like you're holding up."

"I'm not. But I'm standing."

He took that in. "That's enough for now."

They walked together through the exhibit, not touching, not flirting—just talking. About design. Life. Grief. It was the first time Mira felt like she could breathe since her father passed. Like maybe, just maybe, life could begin again.

At the exit, he turned to her.

"Mira, I don't want to push, but I want to be in your corner."

She looked up at him. "What if I'm not ready for corners? Or edges? What if I'm just trying to survive?"

"Then I'll stand in the middle of the mess with you."

And somehow, in the middle of the storm, that promise felt like hope.