Chapter thirty three; Fireworks in the silence

The weeks that followed brought a stillness neither of them expected.

For the first time, there were no dramatic goodbyes, no unresolved tension humming beneath the surface. River and Lila existed in a delicate harmony—parallel lines that now moved together instead of crossing and clashing. Their love no longer demanded chaos to prove its depth. It simply breathed.

But peace, Lila was beginning to realize, didn't mean ease.

They were invited to do a podcast about their upcoming exhibit. The host, a snarky but insightful journalist named Ada, had questions that pierced beneath the surface of their curated answers.

"So," Ada said, smiling into her mic, "You've called this project 'a reckoning of light and shadow.' What were you reckoning with?"

River glanced at Lila.

She leaned in. "Ourselves. The parts we wanted to pretend didn't exist. The mistakes. The regrets. But also the quiet moments. The ones that don't make headlines but build everything else."

Ada tilted her head. "Were you scared to work together again?"

Lila's smile was slow. "Terrified."

River chuckled. "Terrified is an understatement."

After the podcast, they walked hand-in-hand down the promenade, wind tugging at their coats. River stopped near a street performer juggling flaming torches. His eyes reflected the firelight.

"Did that scare you?" he asked.

"The podcast?"

"No. Being honest."

Lila considered. "Less than it used to. It's strange—I spent years afraid to be seen. And now I just want to be known."

He kissed her forehead. "You are. Every day."

A week before the exhibit launch, River's sister Chloe flew in to visit. She'd never really approved of Lila, not entirely, but something had shifted.

"I can see it now," she said, watching the two of them set up frames in the gallery. "You're not the girl who broke his heart anymore."

"I never meant to be," Lila replied softly.

Chloe looked at her then. Really looked. "I know."

Lila walked through the gallery alone that evening. Her poems lined the walls, typed in clean, crisp font beneath River's raw, aching photographs. Images of empty swings, cracked sidewalks, a single streetlamp reflected in a puddle—each one paired with a verse.

She stopped at one pairing. A photo of an old fire escape at dusk, the shadows long and sharp. Her poem read:

> "We don't always burn in fire. Sometimes, We burn in silence. And still—we rise."

The launch night arrived, glittering with soft jazz, clinking glasses, and the subtle buzz of quiet admiration. Lila wore a deep burgundy dress, her hair swept back in curls. River never took his eyes off her.

They stood side by side as the guests filtered through, accepting congratulations and praise. But when the room quieted for Lila's spoken word performance, her heart stuttered.

The mic felt heavier than usual.

She stepped up, looked out at the crowd, and saw River—steady, calm.

Then she began:

> "This is not a story about falling in love. This is a story about learning to stand again, About forgiving the echo of our own voices, And choosing, Every single day, To stay.

Beneath these lights— I didn't find a boy. I found myself. And then, I found a man Who let me keep her."

The applause wasn't deafening, but it was real.

After, River kissed her hand and whispered, "You owned that stage."

They walked home beneath the actual cherry lights, hand in hand. The city was quieter now. Or maybe, they had simply learned to listen differently.

"I don't need anything else," she whispered.

River stopped. "What do you mean?"

"This. Us. It's enough. I don't care about press or galleries or book deals. I just… I want this. Even when it's messy."

He leaned close, their foreheads touching. "You'll always have it."

As they climbed the stairs to her apartment, fireworks lit the sky over the river—a random summer celebration. Lila laughed, breathless.

"Do you think the world's giving us a sign?"

River smiled. "No. I think we've finally started making our own."

That night, as she drifted to sleep beside him, Lila dreamed of simpler things:

Coffee at dawn. Laughter in hallways. Words shared in silence.

And cherry lights that no longer flickered—they blazed.