*Camille*

I didn’t expect it to feel this exposed.

People moved slowly, eyes dragging over fabric and stitching. Some took photos. Others scribbled notes. I smiled, nodded, answered questions. Tried to pretend I was someone who didn’t care what anyone thought.

The exhibition was exactly as promised—minimal, curated, expensive. White walls. Gold lettering. Soft jazz played underneath it all, as though nothing in this room could ever fall apart. It was everything I had come here to build, yet for some reason, I still couldn’t breathe properly.

Lena waved from across the room, holding two glasses of champagne. She mouthed you did it. I gave her a warm smile, lifted my clipboard, gestured one minute.

The first jacket was getting compliments—the boldness, the typography. One of the visiting panelists called it “aggressively modern.” I took it as a compliment.

The third—my favorite—stood apart. Simpler. Quieter. People leaned in to read the small phrases stitched like secrets. It didn’t beg for attention. Maybe that’s why I trusted it.

It was the second one I avoided. Whenever someone stopped in front of it, something inside me twisted. The black fabric, the uneven thread, the eyes—it clung to me, a length of unfinished thread that made my stomach churn.

I should be over it. He likely hadn’t thought of me again. He was probably off somewhere letting other people sketch him, touch him, and want him. He probably never even noticed the silence I left behind.

And yet—Something shifted.

A flicker at the edge of my awareness. Not a thought, but a physical sensation. Tight. Electric. As though someone had whispered my name without making a sound.

I turned. Slowly.
Not looking for anything in concrete.
White walls. Strangers. Glasses clinking. No chaos. Yet my skin prickled.

The back of my neck tingled. I adjusted my grip on the clipboard as one of the program directors passed by and complimented the stitching.

“Merci,” I said, voice even. Accent a little too sharp. “I’m glad it spoke to you.”

I wasn’t listening.
My eyes kept drifting—
Until they stopped.

Across the room.
Leaning against the far wall. Half in shadow.
Hands in his pockets as if he didn’t know what else to do with them.

He wasn’t dressed to stand out.
Black jacket. Boots. Plain shirt.
Hair a little longer. Eyes sharp.

It was him.
Too real to question. Too close to breathe through.

My heart didn’t lurch.
It stopped. Everything inside me went still.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t move.
Just watched. Like he’d been doing it for a while.

My fingers clenched too tight around the clipboard.

I told him not to text me. I needed space. Maybe forever.

And for weeks, he listened.

Now he was here.
The air felt heavier.
As though he’d pulled something into the room I’d been trying to bury.

I didn’t move toward him.
Didn’t look away, either.

Just stared.
Long enough for the noise around us to fade.
Long enough to know he had come here with intent.

*Daniele*

She saw me.
I felt it hit—sharp, electric.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.
Neither did I.
My mouth went dry. I shifted my weight as if  I might turn, like I could still walk out and pretend I’d never been here.
I wasn’t here to talk. Just to see.
But she was already looking at me.
And I couldn’t not go to her.

I pushed off the wall—slow steps through the crowd, weaving past mannequins, voices, and flashes of glass.
The closer I got, the tighter my chest felt. She looked even more put-together up close—structured dress, dark red lipstick, sleeves cuffed like she was ready to work or throw a punch.
She didn’t look surprised. Or pleased. Or pissed. Just blank.
Somehow, that was worse.

I stopped a few feet in front of her. Gave her space. Gave myself a second.
“Hey,” I said. My voice was soft, as if I weren't sure I had the right to use it in her space.

She raised a brow, lips twisting—not quite a smile. Not even close.
“Here for content?” she asked, tone light, cutting. “Or did the mystery girl get enough views already?”

I blinked. Took the hit. Let it settle.
She was good at that—getting under your skin without raising her voice.

I glanced toward the second jacket.
Didn’t answer her jab. Didn’t defend myself. She had the right.
“They’re good,” I said. “All three. Especially that one…”
I nodded at the middle one, the one with the eyes and the scratched-out thread.
“I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

I trailed off—because what the hell do you say to a person you lied to just so you could feel normal for an hour? You don’t say thanks. You don’t ask is that me? Not when the reason it exists is that you were too selfish to tell her the truth.

She crossed her arms loosely, like it was nothing. As if I was just some guy she’d never seen before, commenting on her work.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said. Her voice had dropped. It wasn't warm, but the sharpness had faded into a shrug.

I looked at her again, eyes tracing every part of her face I’d tried not to remember.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I just wanted to see what you made. That’s all.”

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t walk away.

''Camille..''

Her name felt heavier now.

''I'm not here to...do anything. I just—'' I exhaled. ''But if you don't want me here—say the word. I''ll go.''