She sat in a garden full of peonies, the sun catching in her dark hair until it burned with copper threads and illuminating her melanin in a way that always brought me to my knees. One hand cupped a single bloom, and her smile was so bright it felt impossible that it could ever fade.
My throat tightened.
“I love you,” I whispered, the words catching like they might splinter me from the inside. “I’ve tried to let go. I can’t. You’re everywhere, Nina. In every room, every silence. I don’t know how to live in a world where you’re a memory.”
The room stayed still, the only answer was the faint hum of the city outside.
“If it takes a lifetime,” I said finally, voice rough, “I’ll prove it. I’ll make it right this time.”
The photo offered no reply, but I kept staring, as if sheer will might make her turn her head, laugh, and forgive me.
Nina
Another day dawned with a clarity that belied the storm raging inside me. I tried to bury thoughts of him beneath layers of fabric or to drown them out with the cacophony of last-minute show preparations.
But he stayed, like a haunting melody, refusing to be ignored.
It infuriated me how effortlessly he could invade my thoughts and how his image could materialize with such vividness.
I hated how handsome he was—those piercing grayish-blue eyes seemed to see right through me, or his hair, which always looked like he had run his fingers through it.
Even now, I could remember the curve of his smile and the tilt of his head when he was amused. It was maddening how memories of him could still evoke such visceral reactions.
“He’s not worth it,”I muttered under my breath, gripping a bolt of fabric perhaps a bit too tightly.
Francesca shot me a concerned glance. “Everything alright?”
I forced a smile, smoothing out the fabric with deliberate care. “Just lost in thought, Fran. We have a show to prepare for, after all.”
She nodded, though her eyes held a hint of worry. “You know, sometimes it helps to talk about things. Bottling it all up—”
“I appreciate it, Francesca,” I interjected gently, not wanting to delve into the messy tangle that was my past. “But not now.Please.”
As she bustled away, I turned my attention back to the surrounding chaos. Models darted back and forth, seamstresses murmured in rapid Italian, and Inaya hovered nearby, a perpetual whirlwind of efficiency.
“Nina, the final fittings for the evening gowns are starting soon,” she reminded me, her voice laced with concern. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
I nodded curtly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m fine. Let’s get to work.”
The hours passed in a blur of measurements and adjustments, each gown a masterpiece in its own right.
Still, beneath the surface, my thoughts churned like a tempestuous sea. Ronan’s name echoed in my mind with frustrating persistence.
“He’s only trying to get under your skin,” I muttered to myself as I pinned a hemline. “Snap out of it, Nina.”
No matter how much I tried to rationalize, the truth lingered.
I couldn’t shake him. His image haunted me, taunting me with memories of laughter and shared dreams. I hated how effortlessly he breached my defenses, how his presence unraveled the facade I’d worked so hard to build.
“He’s not worth it,” I repeated like a mantra. “Focus on your show.”
After a few more quiet moments, I stepped away from the sewing machine and, with a deep breath, walked out of the studio. Inaya followed me into the calm of my office, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air and grounding us amid the chaos.
“You’ve been a mess since a certain person was mentioned,” Inaya said gently, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
I sighed, sinking into the plush armchair behind my desk. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect him to be such a distraction.”
She nodded, her expression sympathetic. “He has a knack for that, doesn’t he?”
