I should have known from the first touch.

  His fingers grazed mine as he took the gss—just a brief brush of skin.

  Barely there.

  And yet, my breath still hitched.

  Too close.

  Too unfamiliar.

  "You're avoiding me again, Ellie."

  His voice was calm, almost amused. But there was something beneath it—something I couldn't pce.

  How did we even get here?

  ...

  It started with a phone call.

  "Sweetheart, have you found a tenant for the spare room yet?"

  I barely gnced up from my design drafts."Not yet. Rent's cheap, location's good, but the st guy left the pce smelling like an ashtray, and the one before that treated it like a hotel for his random hookups. So, yeah, no luck so far."

  "Well, I found someone for you," Mom said, far too casually. "Remember Adrian? My friend's son."

  My pen stilled.

  Adrian?The name stirred something at the back of my mind.

  "You two were close when you were kids," she reminded me. "He's coming to your city for university—the one near your pce. Isn't that perfect?"

  "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I hesitated. "We haven't been in touch for years."

  "Just meet him first," Mom insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument.

  I sighed, letting the conversation drop. To have a foothold in Velbirdge, I had spent almost all my savings buying this apartment. The cost of preparing my new collection also took a toll on my finances, so renting out a room was the most practical choice. I had already had two tenants—one left a heavy smell of smoke, the other liked bringing strangers home. Because of that, I stopped renting to them in less than a month. I just wanted someone reliable, someone with a clean lifestyle.

  So, I agreed.

  Then life swept me up in its relentless current—deadlines, sketches, long nights hunched over my desk mp. The matter drifted to the back of my mind.

  And today, he would be here.

  ...

  Standing in the living room, I felt a flicker of unease. It had been five years since we st met—would we still get along like we used to? I absentmindedly twisted a strand of hair around my finger, lost in thought.

  I remembered Adrian at ten—All wild curls, bright green eyes, scraped knees, and a ugh that could light up a room. He used to tug at my sleeve, breathless from running, grass stains on his knees, camera swinging wildly around his neck. "Ellie, look at this! No, really—look!" He'd shove his camera at me, demanding attention, eyes bright with excitement—as if capturing a moment was the most important thing in the world. Back then, he was small, loud, always running ahead—always looking back to make sure I was following.

  I smiled at the memory. Those days were simple and warm, as if every moment were bathed in sunlight. But time never lingers.

  Three years slipped by too quickly, and when I turned eighteen, I left for design school in Etheria, in the city of Velbirdge—an internationally renowned hub for fashion and the arts, where creativity thrived on every street corner.

  In the days leading up to my departure, I barely saw him. Whenever I stopped by his house, he was either "studying" in his room or "out." A part of me found it amusing—since when had he become so awkward? But another part felt… a little hurt.

  Then, the day before I left, he finally showed up.

  He stood at my door, clutching a brown paper bag, his eyes puffy. But his grip on the bag was tight—knuckles white, like he was holding something fragile. His gaze flickered to the suitcases behind me. A hesitation. A flicker of something unreadable in his sharp green eyes. Then, without a word, he shoved the bag into my hands and turned away.

  Inside, I found a stack of photos—all of me. Sketching in the yard, cooking in the kitchen, doozing off on the couch. The angles were perfect. The light, deliberate. Not just snapshots, but carefully framed shots. Thoughtful. Intentional. Too good for a ten-year-old just pying around.

  I looked up, something shifting in my chest. "When did you take these?"

  His ears turned red. "Just… here and there."

  I ughed, ruffling his hair. "Not bad, you've got an eye for it."

  Then he looked up at me, his voice unsteady. "Do you… have to go?"

  Seeing the faint redness in his eyes and the way his lips pressed together, I felt a small squeeze in my chest. I forced a light tone. "I'll be back for winter break."

  He said nothing.

  I gently brushed his hair back. "Do you really not want me to go? Should I stay?"

  Still, he didn't speak. His head remained lowered, fingers tugging absently at the hem of his shirt. His shoulders trembled slightly, his breaths uneven, but he never looked up.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, he turned and ran.

  I stood there, holding the stack of photos. A part of me wanted to chase after him, but my flight was early in the morning, and I still had packing to do.

  I sighed, tucking the photos away. It's just a few months. I'll make it up to him when I'm back.

  Back then, I was too caught up in the excitement of leaving, too eager for the future to think much about goodbyes. I assumed time would pass as it always did, that when winter came, we'd pick up right where we left off—sitting in the yard, sketching, sharing stories like before.

  But when I returned for the holidays, they were gone.

  His entire family had moved to Solterra.

  I stood in front of their empty house, a gift for him still clutched in my hand.

  And just like that, we never saw each other again.

  Until today.

  ...

  The doorbell rang, snapping me from my thoughts.

  It must be him.

  I took a deep breath, straightening my posture, trying to look composed.

  But the moment I opened the door, I froze.

  The boy I remembered had been all sharp elbows and eager grins. The man standing at my door was neither. He stood tall, shoulders rexed, one hand in his pocket—casual, but effortlessly self-assured. His bck hoodie was pushed up at the sleeves, revealing lean forearms, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. A denim jacket draped over his frame, slightly oversized, yet fitting just right.

  And then—his eyes.

  Green. Sharp. Steady.

  Something stirred at the back of my mind. Recognition. Hesitation.

  I parted my lips, the name at the tip of my tongue, but I wasn't sure. Too different. Too familiar. My fingers curled slightly. My pulse quickened.

  "You're…?"

  He raised an eyebrow, his voice lower, smoother than I remembered. "Didn't Auntie tell you?"

  My breath hitched. The way he spoke, the slight upward lilt at the end of his sentence—

  It was so much like—

  My heart pounded.

  "Adrian?"