The week passed as if in penumbra.

Emily didn't avoid Sebastian, but she didn't approach him either. They discussed work, meetings, upcoming exhibitions - discreetly, correctly. But in every movement, in every look, there was unspoken resentment. No questions, no answers. Only silence, dense as dust on an old canvas.

And yet it was art, as it had been then, that was the bridge again.

It was late Friday afternoon. The gallery was empty, the staff had dispersed. There was one loose painting on the center hall stand that didn't fit into the concept of the exhibit, and Emily stayed to deal with it. She climbed the stairs, crossed the hall... and saw it.

Sebastian was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, the very same canvas next to him.

He looked up.

- I knew you'd come.

Emily froze. She wanted to leave - back in the day she would have turned around. But not now. Not when he was in front of her like this - tired, human.

- Did you... did you stay on purpose?

- I guess I did. Or maybe you just didn't want to be alone.

She came over. She stopped next to him. The picture was strange: an abstract landscape where two silhouettes seemed to dissolve in the light. It was impossible to tell if it was a meeting or a farewell. Or maybe both at the same time.

- You asked the other day," Sebastian said suddenly. - About the millimeter between two people. Why it mattered.

He looked up at her. - Because sometimes that millimeter is all we have left.

- Or all that gets in the way. - Her voice was quiet.

- 'Yes,' he breathed out.

The silence hung again, but it was different now. There was no coldness in it. It was like the evening air before the rain - filled with something important, but not yet broken.

Sebastian stood up.

- I don't know how to talk about myself. And I certainly don't know how to apologize.

- And I-" Emily swallowed. - I'm afraid to trust. Because I trusted too much once.

He nodded. They both talked as best they could. Awkwardly, unevenly, but honestly.

- I don't want you to leave. - He said.

She took a step closer.

- I...don't want to leave anymore.

Sebastian slowly reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. Emily didn't recoil. The world was suddenly silent. Even the light of the lamps became softer. And this moment was perhaps quieter than all their conversations, but louder than any confession.

And when their lips met, it wasn't about passion. It was about staying.

You know, it's getting late. Let me take you home, Sebastian said.

Let's go for a walk and talk, I think we have a lot to talk about, Emily said.

Sebastian was silent longer than usual. They were walking down an alley in Central Park, where the sparse golden leaves still clung to the branches, as if nature was refusing to give up on fall. Emily felt him struggling with something inside, holding back what was bursting out. And at some point - as if tired - he just exhaled.

- I wasn't planning on going back to art," he said, looking forward as if he was afraid to meet her gaze. - It... was too connected to something I couldn't take anymore.

- What was it? - she asked quietly.

- My mother was an artist. But not the kind they hang in galleries. She painted for herself. On paper, on walls, on wallpaper. When she was happy, it was flowers. When she wasn't, just shadows. After she died, I-- I couldn't even hold a brush. I went into finance, business, control. Anything that could be calculated and controlled. And then... something cracked.

He was silent. Only the wind rustled in the dry branches above their heads.

- A man told me that art was a way to stay alive when there was nothing else to live for. It was so much like her. I started collecting. First as a memory. Then as a mania. And then I realized, I don't just want to own it. I want to be part of something that lives longer than we do.

He turned around.

- And then I met you. And you suddenly reminded me why I started all this in the first place. Not numbers. Not status. It was a feeling.

Emily didn't know what to say. There was no theatricality in his voice. He sounded as if he were surprised at his own candor.

- I'm scared, Emily," he added. - Because for the first time in a long time, I want something I can't calculate. And I'm afraid of ruining it.

She just took his hand. Gently. No words.

And that touch, light and fragile, became their shared vow-albeit unspoken.