Fault Lines

New York City – One Week After the Exhibition

The reviews were in. And they were glowing.

The New York Times called Aria's solo show "a love letter to connection in an age of dislocation." Collectors had offered commissions. A gallery in Berlin reached out for a group show.

It was the moment she'd always dreamed of. And yet…

She stood in her studio, staring at a blank canvas, heart heavier than it should be.

Because Ronan was leaving in two days.

Barcelona had finalized his training schedule. He'd be based there for at least a year. And though the distance wasn't new, this goodbye felt different.

More permanent.

She hadn't said it out loud, but she could feel the weight in every kiss. Every touch. Like they were pouring every last drop into the days they had left.

Barcelona – Meanwhile

Ronan had found a place near the club—modest, sunlit, close to the training grounds.

He tried to be excited.

This was what he wanted. What he bled for.

But his father's voicemail that morning had unraveled something in him.

"Heard you're off to Spain. I know I don't deserve to call you, but… it's getting bad, Ronan. The house is falling apart. I— I'm falling apart."

Ronan had deleted the message. But not before the guilt took root.

The last time he went home, his father had barely looked him in the eye. The bottle had replaced every trace of the man who once coached his youth league games,the man who had gone through multiple rehabs.

He thought he'd left that behind. But some ghosts don't stay buried.

New York – Ronan's Last Night

They lay on her fire escape, stars hidden by the city glow.

"Stay a little longer," she whispered, head on his shoulder.

"I wish I could."

"Then don't go tomorrow."

He turned to her. "You don't mean that."

"I do," she said, then bit her lip. "But I know I shouldn't."

"I don't want to leave you."

"But you have to."

They were quiet for a long time.

Then Ronan said, "My dad called."

Aria sat up. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know. I haven't answered."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know that either."

She took his hand. "You should go home. Before Barcelona. Even for a day."

"What if it wrecks me again?"

"Then you come back to me."

Two Days Later – Dublin, Ireland

The house smelled like old whiskey and dust.

Ronan stepped inside cautiously. His father was asleep on the couch, unshaven, frail, the TV flickering late-night news to no one.

The sight knocked the air from his lungs.

He sat quietly beside him, unsure how to speak to the ghost of the man he once worshipped.

"You look like her, you know," his father murmured, eyes still closed.

Ronan stilled. "Mum?"

A nod. Then: "She'd be proud of you."

That broke something.

He didn't yell. Didn't cry.

He just sat there, holding his father's wrist lightly, grounding him back to the present.

They talked. Not about everything. But about enough.

New York – A Week Later

Aria opened the package at her door: a sketchbook. Old. Torn in places.

Inside was a plane ticket to Barcelona. And a note in Ronan's handwriting:

Every line I run, I run back to you. Come see what we could be.

— R

She laughed, cried, then called him immediately.

"Is this a trick to get me to paint you again?"

"Always."

"I'll come," she whispered. "But only if you let me sketch you with your shirt off."

"I knew this was about the abs."