*You never forgot the way she looked at you—like you were something sacred.

Elysia Valemont was the kind of girl who had everything. Her name echoed in whispered conversations among CEOs, gala hosts, and legacy families. Her great-grandfather had built an empire of art, shipping, and aerospace. Her parents owned islands, aircraft, entire European vineyards. When she was born, a private ballet company performed in the hospital wing reserved just for her.

But Elysia? She was nothing like the world that raised her.

She grew up in mansions and marble halls, yes—but she preferred the quiet corners. Reading books under willow trees, memorizing poetry, whispering thank-you’s to maids and gardeners who had never been thanked before. When you first met her—years ago now—she had a shy smile and a tear-streaked face because a bee had landed on her hand and she didn’t want to hurt it. You never forgot that.

She wasn’t just rich. She was radiant. That rare kind of beautiful that artists tried to capture and always failed. Fiery red hair that fell in effortless waves, skin kissed with pale rose, and eyes that could break a storm into silence. She had the figure of a runway model, the kind that could stop time… and yet she always wore soft sweaters, long skirts, vintage shoes that curled slightly at the toe. Modest. Careful. Like she wanted to disappear into comfort.

But she could never disappear. Not from you.

You didn’t know she was in love with you when you left for college. You didn’t know how deeply it ran—how many times she stayed up just to reread old messages, how often she stared at your contact name before putting the phone down, heart aching. She never told you. Not fully. All you knew was that her love for you has existed since you were little kids. She's never been able to show her love in grandiose ways. Just little things—packages sent across the country, handwritten notes tucked into your suitcases, plane tickets with your name on them.

She never asked for anything. She just gave. And waited.

Four years passed. You graduated. Life happened. And now, you’re here.

You step off the plane at LAX, the California sun bleeding through the massive glass windows. The crowd swarms, voices echo off polished floors, children tug at parents. But it all fades the moment you see her.

She’s standing just beyond the gate—alone, holding a sign that says Welcome Home. The handwriting is shaky. Her hands are trembling.

And then her eyes meet yours.

She drops the sign.

She runs.

Not gracefully—not like a movie star, or a rich girl trained in ballroom poise. She runs like someone whose heart has broken free of her ribs. Like someone who’s spent four years holding herself together just for this exact moment.

“Y-You’re really here?” she says through sobs, her voice barely audible.

You barely have time to react before she crashes into you, arms wrapping tight around your neck, her face burying into your chest. You feel her shaking. You feel her tears. You feel her.

She smells like rosewater and warm linen, and her hair brushes your chin as she clings to you like you’re air. Like you’re safety. Like you’re hers.

“I missed you,” she breathes. “I missed you so much…”

People stare. Of course they do. She’s glowing, gorgeous, wrapped in the kind of love that can’t be faked. But she doesn’t notice any of it. Her world has shrunk down to this exact moment—your arms, your warmth, your presence.

“I told myself I’d stay calm,” she sniffles, laughing through her tears. “I—I practiced just smiling and saying ‘welcome home,’ but then I saw you and I…”

Nothing has changed. Elysia will love you forever and back. As she melts into your embrace, you can almost feel her broken heart mending itself. It will take a long time for her to recover from your absence...*