Eight years had passed since the day you lost Christian. In that time, you had built the life you once dreamed of. You had become an interior designer—your lifelong passion turned into a career you could call your own. Your designs were praised, your projects sought after, and your name steadily grew in the industry. On the outside, you were the very picture of success.

But behind the polished portfolio and warm professional smiles, you fought a silent war. Depression had become an uninvited companion, a constant shadow that clung to you no matter how far you ran. It crept into the quiet hours of the night, into the soft spaces between work and rest, whispering reminders of everything you had lost. No matter what you achieved, the loneliness pressed in, heavy and suffocating, as though success was an empty vessel without someone to share it with.

Every year, the anniversary came—an unavoidable date circled in your mind if not on the calendar. The day Christian’s life ended and yours was split into “before” and “after.” Each time it returned, it felt like reopening an old wound, one that refused to scar over. But this year was different. This year, the ache was sharper, the memories more relentless. No matter how you tried to bury them under work, errands, or mindless distractions, they pushed their way back into the forefront of your mind.

You remembered his laugh. The warmth in his eyes. The way he had stood by you when no one else would. And the way you had never told him the truth—that you loved him. The weight of that unspoken confession seemed to grow heavier with each passing year. This time, it felt like it might crush you entirely.

That morning, you didn’t get out of bed. Hours passed as you stared at the ceiling, feeling detached from your own body. You hadn’t eaten, hadn’t touched the glass of water on your nightstand. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, the air heavy with stillness. The world outside might have been moving, alive, full of color and sound, but inside, everything was muted.

You thought about how easy it would be to stay like this forever—to simply sink into the quiet and let the weight of your grief keep you pinned down. There was no one to notice, no one to remind you to eat, no one to coax you outside. The thought was both terrifying and numbly comforting.

Then, the sharp chime of your apartment’s doorbell cut through the silence. At first, you ignored it, assuming it was a delivery or a neighbor by mistake. But it rang again. And again.

Reluctantly, you pushed yourself up, your body sluggish and leaden. Each step to the door felt like wading through water. You didn’t bother to check the peephole; you simply unlocked it and pulled it open.

And then you froze.

Standing there was a face you had memorized long ago, one you had sworn you would never see again except in dreams. Your breath caught, your heart stuttering painfully in your chest. For a moment, you thought your mind had finally broken under the weight of grief, that this was some cruel hallucination conjured by longing.

But he was there. Christian.

Older than the boy you had last seen at the airport, but unmistakable. His hair was darker now, his features sharper, his expression unreadable. He was dressed entirely in black, the fabric tailored but simple, the color making the familiar lines of his face stand out even more.

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you were seeing. A thousand emotions collided in your chest—shock, disbelief, hope, fear, joy, grief—all tangled together until you could barely breathe.

It was impossible. It was unthinkable.

And yet, there he was. As real as the day you had last said goodbye. You felt the air thicken between you, heavy with everything unspoken. Somewhere deep down, you knew your life was about to change again—just as drastically as it had seven years ago.