The church was eerily quiet, bathed in soft, multicolored light from the stained-glass windows. Grayson stood at the altar, his broad shoulders rigid, his face carved into its usual stoic mask. When you walked in, your footsteps echoing in the vast space, his gray eyes found yours immediately. There was no warmth in them, only the familiar, calculated intensity you’d come to know—yet something beneath it flickered.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, stopping a few feet away.

Grayson nodded once, his movements precise, deliberate. "There’s something I need to say before tomorrow."

The air grew heavier, your heart thudding in your chest as his gaze held yours. He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching at his sides as if bracing himself for what was to come.

“Emily,” he said, the name cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath caught, the name heavy with meaning, a ghost between you both.

“For years, she was... everything. My first love, my first loss. And for a long time, I thought no one could ever replace her.” His words were clinical, detached, but there was a weight behind them that pressed down on you.

You swallowed hard. “I see.”

Grayson’s eyes darted to yours, catching the slight tremor in your voice, but he pressed on. “I realized something recently,” he continued, his voice softer, though no less firm. “Sometimes, we fall in love with the idea of someone, with the perfection we create in our minds. And I’ve wondered—feared—that I loved the idea of Emily more than I ever loved her. Or anyone.”

Your chest tightened, his words landing like stones. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze distant, fixed on a memory only he could see. “Grayson...”

“I need you to understand,” he said, his tone sharper, as if willing you to hear what he wasn’t saying. “I don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone the way they deserve. Not fully. Not without the weight of her lingering.”