Gallery Across The Sea

Aria wasn't expecting the email.

She opened it in the quiet stillness of her studio, early light streaming through the glass and casting amber hues across the floor. Her coffee had gone cold, her brush midair over a half-finished canvas.

Subject: Invitation to Join the Autumn Rising Exhibition – New York City

Her eyes darted over the words again and again, her pulse picking up with every line.

We've followed your Paris showcase and recent works with growing interest. Your pieces are emotionally evocative, grounded in raw narrative and visual poetry. We'd like to offer you a place in this fall's Rising Exhibition in Manhattan. It's a launchpad for the next generation of artists—and your name was personally recommended.

She scrolled to the bottom, barely breathing.

Flight, housing, and studio costs covered. Three-month residency. Gallery debut. Late September.

Three months.

In New York.

Without Ronan.

That night, she told him.

They sat on the edge of the bed, the email still open on her tablet between them.

Ronan read every word, lips parted, quiet.

When he looked up, his eyes gave away nothing.

"New York," he finally said.

Aria nodded. "It's… a huge opportunity."

"It is."

"I don't know what to do."

He let out a soft breath. "Aria. You do."

Her eyes searched his. "I don't want to leave you."

He smiled faintly. "But you want to go."

"I'm terrified," she admitted. "What if I go and everything changes?"

"What if you don't go and you regret it forever?"

That silenced her.

Ronan shifted to face her fully. "You're not meant to stay small. And you sure as hell didn't come to Paris to be safe. You came here to find your edge again."

Her voice cracked. "But this time I'd be doing it without you."

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers. "We survived being apart before. And this time it's different. This time we know what we're fighting for."

The Next Week – Ticking Clock

They didn't talk about the decision much after that night. But it lingered, heavy between them like humidity before a storm.

Ronan threw himself harder into training. His footwork grew faster, his passes sharper. But every time he stood under the stadium lights, part of him wondered what it would feel like to score a goal and not have Aria in the stands.

Aria painted more than ever. As if pouring herself onto the canvas would make the choice easier. But every image looked like goodbye

Three Days Before Departure Deadline

Aria and Ronan met at their usual rooftop spot, the Paris skyline golden behind them.

She stood at the ledge, arms folded, quiet.

"I said yes," she finally whispered.

Ronan exhaled. "Good."

"I leave in ten days."

He nodded, forcing a smile.

She turned to him. "Say something."

"I'm proud of you."

"Ronan—"

"I'm scared too," he admitted. "I'm scared you'll go there and realize you don't need me."

Her expression broke. "How could I ever not need you?"

"You'll be in the city of a thousand chances. And I'll still be chasing this dream with mud on my cleats and bruises on my ribs."

She stepped into his space, gently cupping his face. "Don't you get it? I don't love you because you chase dreams. I love you because you never let me give up on mine."

Ronan leaned into her touch. "So we do this? Three months apart?"

"We've done longer," she said softly. "And now we have something we didn't before."

"What?"

"Belief."

He pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. "Promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Don't forget what home feels like."

She kissed his jaw. "I won't. Because home isn't Paris. Or New York. It's you."

One Week Later – Charles de Gaulle Airport

The departures board blinked overhead. Aria stood with her passport in hand, tears in her eyes.

Ronan wrapped his arms around her like it was the last time.

But it wasn't.

"I'll come visit," he said. "First break I get."

"I'll hold you to that."

"And when this program ends…"

"I'll be back," she promised.

Their final kiss was slow. Messy. Full of everything unsaid.

Then she turned.

And walked away.

And Ronan stood there watching until she disappeared past the gates.

Back in Paris

He went straight to the studio.

Her scent still lingered. A half-finished painting sat under a sheet.

Ronan walked to it, heart thudding.

He lifted the cover.

And found them—painted in oils and shadows, tangled together under moonlight, her brush strokes wild and raw.

Beneath the painting's title, she'd written just three words.

"For my forever."