“You’re late,” Elliot said, his tone playful as you jogged into the art studio.

The familiar smell of paint and turpentine hit you, grounding you in the space that had become a second home over the past few weeks. Elliot sat on a stool, charcoal smudged on his fingers as he worked on a half-finished sketch. He didn’t glance up, but the teasing grin on his face was unmistakable.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you shot back, tossing your bag onto the floor and taking the chair beside him.

“Oh, please,” he said, finally looking at you, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “You live for this chaos.”

He wasn’t wrong. The last month had been a whirlwind since Elliot dragged you into his world—a blur of midnight rooftop hangs, cryptic texts, and raw conversations that felt like breathing fresh air. He had a way of making life unpredictable but meaningful.

But something was off today. His usual energy was dimmed, his movements slower, his shoulders tense. He avoided eye contact, even when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Okay, spill,” you said, leaning back.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Elliot. What’s going on?”

For a moment, he stared at the sketch in front of him, shadows blending into chaos. Then, with a sigh, he set the pencil down.

“It’s Lucille,” he admitted. “She’s been messaging me. Saying she misses me, that she made a mistake.”

Ah. That explained the tension. You knew how much the breakup had affected him, even if he pretended otherwise.

“What do you think?” you asked.

“I don’t know.” His voice cracked slightly. “Part of me wants to believe her. But I don’t know if I can go back.”

You nodded, letting the silence stretch before speaking. “You don’t have to figure it all out today. Just don’t let her pull you back into something that broke you.”

Elliot’s smile was faint but genuine. “Thanks. I mean it.”