The sky over Los Angeles woke gray and distracted, the kind of morning that forgot what it wanted to be.
Ava poured coffee and stared at her calendar, the squares filled with purpose but not meaning.
The word from last night still hung in her mind like a ribbon that refused to cut loose.
Maybe.
It was the softest admission, the kind that came only after too many rules had been broken quietly. She thought about Evan’s voice, how he had said it too, how his laugh had slipped between apology and hope.
The rain began before noon, tapping the window with the patience of someone who knew she’d eventually look up. She did. The city outside was blurred and beautiful and utterly inconvenient.
Her phone buzzed once. A message from him.
*Traffic’s bad. If it doesn’t clear, I’ll reschedule dinner.*
She typed, deleted, typed again.
*It’s okay. Stay safe.*
He replied with a small heart emoji, which somehow made everything worse.
She told herself it didn’t matter, that she had work. The truth was she had already changed clothes twice—once for comfort, once for possibility.
By two o’clock she had made herself tea she didn’t drink, answered three emails she didn’t remember sending, and reorganized her files alphabetically by clients she didn’t even like.
Chloe texted.
*Still alive?*
*Define alive,* Ava wrote.
*Come out tonight.*
*Rain.*
*That’s water, not kryptonite.*
Ava smiled despite herself.
At four, she opened Evan’s feed out of habit. Photos from the charity shoot had exploded online. Kids in bright clothes, volunteers laughing, captions full of gratitude. And there he was, half-hidden behind the camera, his reflection caught in someone else’s post—smiling.
He looked free.
She closed the app and set her phone face down. The quiet felt like punishment.
At six, her phone buzzed again.
*Hey,* he wrote. *Still raining. Maybe tomorrow?*
She stared at it, then typed back: *Rain check.*
*Promise I’ll make it up to you.*
The word promise stung.
It reminded her of all the other promises people had made—promises to stay, to call, to mean what they said.
She had learned to treat them like weather forecasts: accurate until it mattered.
She turned on the radio just for company. A soft acoustic song filled the apartment, the kind of melody that never demanded anything, just existed. She let herself lean against the counter, eyes closed, lips parting in a small sigh.
Maybe, she whispered again.
Outside, thunder rolled far away like someone dragging furniture across the sky.
The knock on the door startled her.
When she opened it, Chloe stood there, damp hair and all.
"Put on shoes," she said.
"I’m not going anywhere."
"Yes, you are. I brought moral support and an umbrella. One of them works."
Ava laughed. "You’re relentless."
"That’s why you love me. Now move."
Fifteen minutes later, they were in a cab heading downtown, windshield wipers doing their own frustrated dance.
"You realize I hate bars," Ava said.
"Good thing this one also serves fries."
The driver hummed along with the rain. The city glowed wet and silver, every light doubled in puddles.
"You think he’s working?" Chloe asked suddenly.
"Probably."
"You think he’s thinking about you?"
Ava stared out the window. "Does it matter?"
"Only if you want it to."
They arrived at a small bar tucked between a record shop and a florist. Warm air, amber lights, the smell of lemon and spilled whiskey. It felt like a place built for second thoughts.
"To canceled plans," Chloe said, lifting her glass.
"That’s not a real toast."
"It is tonight."
They drank. The first sip burned, the second soothed. Ava felt her shoulders loosen, her pulse slow.
"You ever think," Chloe said, "that the people who make us craziest are the ones who feel most like home?"
"That sounds poetic and wrong at the same time."
"That’s love, babe."
The door opened, wind rushed in, and for a fraction of a second, Ava’s heart betrayed her.
The figure in the doorway was tall, dark-haired, familiar.
Not him.
Of course not him.
She smiled without humor. "I hate this part."
"Which part?" Chloe asked.
"The part where I want something and pretend I don’t."
"Then stop pretending," Chloe said simply.
But Ava couldn’t. Wanting felt like weakness, and weakness felt too much like honesty.
She took another drink instead.
The rain didn’t stop. It only changed moods—steady, rhythmic, hypnotic. By nine, the bar was a blur of conversations and half-finished confessions. Ava sat with her chin on her hand, watching the world through the window’s fogged glass.
"You know what your problem is?" Chloe said.
"I’m efficient?"
"You confuse self-control with safety."
"It’s worked so far."
"Then why do you look like you’re waiting for someone?"
Ava looked away. "Because I probably am."
Chloe reached for her bag. "Text him."
"He’s busy."
"Text him anyway. Worst case, you stay busy too."
Ava hesitated, then unlocked her phone. The message box stared back like a blank dare.
*Still awake?* she typed. Then deleted it.
*Never mind.*
A minute later, a reply appeared anyway.
*Barely. Long day.*
Her breath caught.
*I figured,* she wrote. *Hope it went well.*
*It did. Kids were amazing. Laura almost broke her ankle chasing a runaway balloon.*
Ava smiled despite the twist in her chest. *Occupational hazard.*
*Exactly.*
There was a pause, then another message.
*Wish you’d been there. You would’ve loved it.*
She stared at the screen until Chloe leaned over. "He texted you?"
"Yeah."
"See? You’re not invisible."
"It’s not that."
"What then?"
"It’s that I wanted to be."
Chloe blinked. "That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Drink more."
They stayed another hour, talking about everything except what mattered. By the time they stepped outside, the rain had softened to a mist, a quiet applause from the city.
"Promise me something," Chloe said as they shared an umbrella.
"Depends what it costs."
"Don’t talk yourself out of good things."
"Define good."
"Things that make you smile without strategy."
Ava exhaled, letting the rain hit her shoes. "I’ll try."
Back home, she dropped her keys in the bowl and turned on the light. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and waiting. She toed off her shoes, checked her phone. One new message.
*Made it home?* Evan wrote.
*Just now,* she replied.
*Good. Brunch still on tomorrow?*
*If your mom hasn’t changed the menu.*
*She’s making enough for a small army.*
*Then I’ll bring armor.*
A laughing emoji appeared, followed by: *See you at ten?*
*Ten,* she confirmed.
For a long moment, she didn’t move. The clock hummed in the silence. She could still hear the rain outside, still feel the echo of his words.
Maybe, she thought again—but this time it sounded less like doubt and more like beginning.
She placed the phone facedown, turned off the lamp, and stood by the window. The sky had stopped crying; it was only breathing now.
And so was she.
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