By September, Emily had learned to live with the in-between.

The days moved like chapters she hadn’t meant to write—long shifts, late nights, small joys.  

Ryan existed somewhere inside them, like a familiar song that came on unexpectedly, soft but steady.  

Not background noise.  

Just... quieter now.

Her life had grown in unexpected directions.  

She started sketching again—on napkins, receipts, even cardboard from beer cases.  

Customers began asking if she sold her drawings.  

At first, she laughed. Then one night, she said, “Maybe.”  

Jess, being Jess, took it personally as a project.  

Within weeks, Emily had an online page, a few prints, and a small art fair booth.  

She was terrified.  

And she loved it.  

“Look at you,” Jess said during setup day. “Career woman, entrepreneur, caffeine addict.”  

“I prefer ‘unstable creative genius.’”  

Jess rolled her eyes. “Your brand’s already exhausting.”  

“Thank you. I try.”  

Meanwhile, across the country, Ryan was learning his own version of “new.”  

Long meetings, team dinners, the occasional lonely hotel room.  

He’d started running again—his way of thinking without sitting still.  

He talked to her less now, but when they did, the conversations were warmer, deeper.  

Not about schedules or weather anymore, but about how they were changing.  

One night, he texted: *Do you ever feel like life’s expanding faster than you can hold it?*  

She replied: *Yes. That’s how you know it’s alive.*  

He read it three times.  

Then added, *You sound like someone I’d fall for.*  

She sent back a heart emoji, then added, *Too late.*

In October, Ryan surprised her again.  

No warnings, no postcard.  

He simply showed up at the art fair, standing in front of her booth, holding coffee.  

She blinked, half convinced she was hallucinating.  

“Hey,” he said, smiling like it was the most casual thing in the world.  

“Hi,” she managed, heartbeat skipping.  

“You’re supposed to text before teleporting.”  

“I wanted to see your face when you realized I was real.”  

“Congratulations. I’m emotionally unstable now.”  

He laughed, handing her the coffee.  

“I figured you’d need caffeine more than therapy.”  

“You’re not wrong.”  

Her booth wasn’t fancy, just sketches taped to boards and a few framed pieces.  

But people stopped, asked questions, smiled.  

And Ryan watched her—really watched her—like he was seeing something brand new.  

When the fair ended, they walked together through the park, the sky streaked orange.  

“I didn’t know you were doing all this,” he said.  

“I didn’t either. It kind of happened.”  

“It suits you.”  

“What, chaos?”  

“Making things out of it.”  

She smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said that wasn’t an engineering metaphor.”  

“Growth,” he said. “I’m learning.”  

That night, they had dinner at a small Italian place near the river.  

They talked like people who’d known each other in several different lives.  

No tension, no pretending. Just warmth.

At one point, he looked at her and said, “You know, I think we’ve stopped chasing what we were.”  

She tilted her head. “And started being who we are?”  

He nodded. “Exactly.”  

It wasn’t a love confession, but it felt like one.  

The kind that didn’t need fixing or defining.  

When they said goodbye later, there were no promises this time.  

No “soon” or “next time.”  

Just a quiet understanding that they’d see each other again when they should.  

She kissed him once—soft, lingering.  

“Go build your empires,” she said.  

“You too,” he whispered.  

Then he was gone again,  

and somehow, it didn’t break her.  

It just… made sense.  

Weeks passed.  

Her art started selling.  

His project made headlines.  

They texted, called, missed each other in bursts.  

Sometimes she’d draw him from memory—hands, eyes, laughter lines.  

Sometimes he’d write her an email he never sent, saved in drafts titled *Us*.  

Love had become something between permanence and air—  

a rhythm, a pulse,  

something that existed even when they didn’t touch.  

One night in November, Emily closed the bar alone after hours.  

She played their old playlist on low volume, cleaned counters, fed the cat.  

The city hummed outside like an old friend.  

She picked up her phone, typed: *Hey. Just thinking of you.*  

Then paused.  

She didn’t send it.  

Instead, she smiled, set the phone down, and whispered into the quiet,  

“He probably already knows.”  

And maybe he did.  

Somewhere, across states and time zones,  

Ryan looked up from his desk,  

and for no reason at all,  

he smiled too.  

Because love, it turned out,  

didn’t need proof—  

just presence,  

even from far away.