Raine told herself not to expect anything.
Celeste had never made promises. She never said she would return, never lingered long enough to let Raine think she would stay.
And yet, Raine found herself looking forward to her visits, listening for the quiet chime of the bell as Celeste stepped into the store, book in hand, the ever-present guitar case slung over her shoulder like a ghost of something unspoken.
She always arrived at odd hours, slipping in just before sunset, as if she preferred the bookstore in the dying light. And every time, they would fall into the same quiet rhythm—Celeste reading, Raine working, their silence comfortable, almost warm.
Almost.
But there were cracks in that silence.
Little moments where Celeste would pause mid-page, her fingers tightening around the edges of the book. Moments where she would stare at nothing, lost in thoughts she never shared.
Raine wanted to ask.
But she didn't.
Because every time she got too close, Celeste would pull away.
Like tonight.
It was late—later than usual. The bookstore was closed, the street outside quiet except for the occasional car passing by. Celeste hadn't moved from her spot by the window, her book long forgotten on the table.
She was watching the rain.
Raine hesitated, drying off a mug she had been holding for far too long.
"You okay?" she asked finally.
Celeste didn't answer at first. Then—
"I used to love the rain."
The words were soft, almost lost to the sound of the downpour outside.
Raine frowned. "Used to?"
Celeste exhaled, a slow, steady breath. "I don't know. Maybe I still do."
There was something heavy in her voice. Something Raine couldn't place.
She wanted to press, to ask what she meant, but before she could, Celeste turned to her.
"Do you ever feel like… you're running out of time?"
Raine blinked.
The question caught her off guard.
"What do you mean?"
Celeste didn't answer.
Instead, she reached for the guitar case beside her.
Raine watched as she slowly unlatched it, as careful as if she were handling something fragile, something precious.
She had never seen Celeste open it before.
Not once in all these nights.
Raine held her breath as Celeste lifted the guitar from its case.
Then—without a word—she started to play.
The melody was quiet.
Soft, almost hesitant, as if she were relearning something long forgotten.
Raine barely moved, afraid that even the slightest noise might break whatever spell had settled over the room.
Celeste's fingers glided over the strings, each note weaving into the air like something delicate, something unfinished. It was a sad tune, filled with longing, with words that had never been spoken.
Raine felt her chest tighten.
It was beautiful.
Painfully, achingly beautiful.
Then—just as suddenly as it started—Celeste stopped.
Her fingers stilled on the strings, her breath uneven.
Raine waited.
But Celeste didn't play again.
She just sat there, staring down at the guitar in her hands, a shadow passing over her face.
Regret.
Raine knew what regret looked like.
She had never seen it this clearly on Celeste before.
"…Why did you stop?" Raine asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Celeste closed her eyes for a moment, as if composing herself. Then, carefully, she placed the guitar back into its case.
"I shouldn't have played that."
Raine's stomach twisted.
"Why not?"
But Celeste was already standing up, already pulling her coat tighter around herself.
"I should go."
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Celeste was gone.
Leaving only the ghost of a melody lingering in the air.
Raine didn't see her for days after that.
She tried not to think about it.
Tried not to replay the song in her head, not to wonder why Celeste had looked so broken after playing it.
But she did.
And she hated how much she missed her.
Hated how empty the bookstore felt without her quiet presence.
But most of all—
She hated that she didn't understand why.
Why Celeste kept pulling away.
Why she looked at her like she wanted to stay—
But always chose to leave.