Space Between Yes and No

New York City – Three Weeks Later

The email came on a Sunday.

Aria was sitting in a café in SoHo, sketching the curve of a dancer's spine from memory, steam curling up from her untouched tea. Her phone buzzed once.

Subject: Residency Extension Offer – One-Year Contract

She clicked it open with a nervous breath.

We are thrilled by your contributions to the Autumn Rising Exhibition. We'd like to formally offer you a year-long residency at the Hayden Collective. This will include housing, a stipend, studio space, and a solo show in summer next year. We believe your work has the power to shift narratives—and we'd be honored to support you in doing that.

Her hands trembled.

One year.

Twelve months away from Paris. From Ronan. From the life they were only just beginning.

Her first instinct was to call him.

But she hesitated.

Because part of her wasn't sure what she wanted him to say.

Paris – That Same Evening

Ronan stood in the locker room, unwrapping the compression tape from his thigh.

He was back.

Fully cleared.

He hadn't told Aria yet. He wanted to wait until after this next practice—his first full scrimmage since the injury. If all went well, his starting spot would be reinstated.

But that wasn't the only news.

Coach had pulled him aside after drills the previous day.

"There's a scout from Barcelona coming next month. Their U23 division is building a new roster."

Spain.

Professional football. On the biggest stage.

It was everything he'd worked for. Fought through pain for.

But all he could think about was Aria. And how she wasn't in the stands anymore.

Two Days Later – FaceTime Call

Aria: "I got an offer."

Ronan: "What kind?"

She hesitated, then lifted her eyes to the camera. "A one-year residency. With a solo show."

His breath caught. "That's incredible."

"But?"

"But it's… a long time."

He nodded, fingers clenching his phone tighter. "And you want to say yes."

"I don't know." Her voice cracked. "I want to make the right decision for my career. But I also want to come home."

"Which one feels heavier?"

"They both do."

Ronan exhaled slowly. "Then we figure it out. Together."

"I don't want to ask you to wait for me."

"You're not asking. I'm choosing."

"But what if—"

"No," he said gently. "No what-ifs. I love you. That doesn't change based on geography."

She wiped her cheek. "What if you get the Barcelona offer?"

His lips twitched. "How do you know about that?"

She smiled through her tears. "I may have talked to Carter."

"Of course you did."

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then she asked, "What happens if we both say yes?"

Ronan looked at her for a long moment. "Then we live like hell for what we love—and trust the middle will find us."

Later That Night – Aria's Apartment

She sat before a blank canvas, her decision looming in her chest like thunderclouds.

She dipped her brush into paint—midnight blue, burnt sienna, deep scarlet.

She painted a skyline split in two—New York and Paris—connected by a thread of gold that wound through clouds and hands and hearts.

She titled it "What Love Built."

And she emailed the gallery:

I accept.

Paris – Next Morning

Ronan stood on the pitch, the ball at his feet, scouts in the stands.

He glanced toward the sky.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt calm.

Focused.

He passed. He sprinted. He scored.

And when his coach nodded with a proud smirk, he felt it settle.

He wasn't just chasing glory anymore.

He was chasing it for them.