Lana stepped out of Café Amour, the night air cool against her skin. The city around her pulsed with life—laughter spilling from a nearby bar, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional ring of a bicycle bell. Aurivelle never really slept, but tonight, she felt completely alone in it.
Her heels clicked softly against the pavement as she walked.
She didn't know where she was going.
She just knew she needed to move.
Her chest ached, but she told herself it was nothing. Just the remnants of foolish hope. Just the aftertaste of a mistake she wouldn't make again.
He never promised anything.
He never even told me his name.
The realization settled deep inside her, heavier than she expected. She had been writing letters to a stranger, spilling fragments of herself onto ink and paper, and she had believed—really believed—that it had meant something to him, too.
She laughed, but it was empty.
How ridiculous.
How naive.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't check it. It would be Noa, probably telling her to come over, to let herself be comforted.
She wasn't ready for that.
Instead, she kept walking, turning down a quieter street, away from the brightness of the city. The wind tugged at the edges of her coat, as if urging her to go home, to let this night end, to let him go.
She would.
Eventually.
But not yet.
Not until she stopped feeling the weight of words that had never been spoken.