The weeks after Adrian left felt both endless and light.
Elyndra carried on, indifferent as always—rain, traffic, a thousand strangers moving in practiced rhythm.
Clara moved among them, steady, almost invisible, but not lost.
He had written once.
A short email, the kind you could mistake for a memo.
> London’s gray lives up to its reputation.
> Coffee’s worse.
> Hope you’re still writing.
> –A
She read it twice, smiled once, and didn’t reply right away.
Not out of hesitation, but because silence finally didn’t feel like distance anymore.
When she did write back, it was simple.
> Still writing.
> Still listening to the rain.
> –C
Life continued in small, deliberate steps.
She took on new projects, went running again, even joined Mae and Theo for trivia nights she usually avoided.
Sometimes, she’d catch herself laughing too loudly, and it surprised her in the best way.
At night, her apartment felt bigger—not emptier, just quieter.
She rearranged her bookshelves, added plants she’d probably forget to water.
One morning she woke to sunlight cutting through the blinds, soft and golden.
For a moment, she thought, *This is what staying feels like.*
That same week, Mae dropped by with a bottle of cheap wine and too much honesty.
“So,” Mae said, flopping onto the couch, “are we talking about him yet?”
Clara laughed. “Define ‘talking.’”
“As in: do you miss him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes like what?”
“Like muscle memory. Something that used to ache and now just reminds me I’m still here.”
Mae nodded, pouring wine into mismatched glasses. “That’s poetic.”
“I think it’s just survival.”
“Same thing, really.”
They drank and talked about everything except the things that still hurt.
It was enough.
Before leaving, Mae looked around the apartment and said, “You know, it feels different here now.”
“How so?”
“Lived in. Like the ghosts finally learned their manners.”
Clara smiled. “Took them long enough.”
After Mae left, the quiet settled again, gentle this time.
She stood by the window, watching the city lights blink through the mist.
Somewhere far away—different sky, different time zone—she imagined Adrian doing the same.
Maybe holding coffee instead of wine.
Maybe thinking about the sound of rain.
It wasn’t longing.
It was connection, stretched thin but unbroken, like the space between stars—
the kind that looks like distance but is mostly light.
A month later, the city turned colder again.
The kind of cold that pressed against your skin like a reminder: time keeps moving whether you want it to or not.
Clara walked home late from work one night, her breath visible in the air.
The streets were mostly empty except for the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement.
She stopped by the pier without meaning to.
The water was black, restless, the sky above heavy with clouds.
Somewhere across that ocean was London, she thought.
And somewhere under the same clouds, Adrian was probably awake, reading, thinking too much.
She pulled out her phone.
Opened his last message.
Closed it again.
For a moment, she just stood there—cold, still, alive.
Her reflection in the dark water didn’t look lonely.
It looked steady.
The next morning, she woke before sunrise and wrote for hours.
No plan, no structure—just words pouring out like air she’d been holding too long.
It wasn’t about him, not really.
It was about the space people leave behind, and how sometimes that space becomes the proof they were ever real.
When she finished, the sun had already climbed above the rooftops.
Her phone buzzed with a new email.
**From:** Adrian Cole
**Subject:** *Rain sounds different here*
> I thought I’d get used to it, but I don’t think I will.
> It’s lighter, faster—like it doesn’t stay long enough to mean anything.
>
> Hope Elyndra’s still raining.
> Hope you’re still running.
> –A
She read it twice, then started typing.
> Elyndra’s rain hasn’t changed.
> It still overstays its welcome, still sounds like memory.
>
> I’m still here.
> And I think that’s enough.
> –C
She hovered over “send” for a long time.
Then she pressed it.
The message left with a soft click—small, almost silent.
But in that quiet, something loosened.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window slightly.
She looked out at the sky, a pale wash of silver.
The city was waking up, ordinary and infinite at once.
She whispered to no one in particular, “I hope you hear it too.”
Then she smiled—tired, peaceful, ready.
The day stretched open before her,
and for the first time in a long time,
she didn’t feel like she was waiting for anything.
She was already where she was meant to be.
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