The hall was quiet, too quiet for a celebration. The after-party for the network's new show was happening just a few rooms away, music thumping faintly through the walls, people laughing, voices rising with joy and cheer. But here, in this secluded part of the venue, Ashtine stood alone. The champagne glass in her hand remained untouched, her eyes focused on the single flower placed beside the fruit platter on a nearby table.
It was a blossom. A soft, pale-pink flower. A cherry blossom.
Her breath caught. That flower had no business being there—not unless someone remembered.
Her hand hovered above it, then slowly reached out. Her fingers gently grazed the petals, and the fragile weight of nostalgia settled on her chest. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. No one could've known the significance of that particular flower. No one but him.
A sound behind her—a quiet step—made her freeze. She turned slowly.
Andres.
He stood at the threshold of the hallway, hands in his pockets, like he hadn't planned on being here either. Like fate had yanked him into her orbit again. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither moved.
She looked back at the blossom. Then she raised her eyes. "Was it you?"
He didn't need clarification. He nodded once. "I asked them to place it here. Just… felt like the right place."
Ashtine tried to smile but failed. Instead, she blinked rapidly. Her chest felt too tight. "Why?"
Andres stepped forward, careful. Slow. Like getting closer to her meant braving a storm he had no umbrella for. "Because… I remembered."
She inhaled shakily. "You shouldn't have."
"I couldn't forget," he said, voice low.
Their silence stretched again, thick with everything unsaid. Ashtine's hand fell from the flower, and she faced him fully now, no longer hiding.
"I didn't think you'd show tonight," she said softly.
"Didn't think you'd come either."
She let out a breathy chuckle that wasn't quite amused. "Is that all we do now? Think the worst about each other?"
His eyes flickered. Hurt, restrained. "No. That's not what I want."
Ashtine crossed her arms, more to hold herself than anything else. "Then what do you want, Andres? Because I'm tired of dodging questions and glances and pretending like nothing happened."
He walked another step closer, now just a few feet away. His voice cracked slightly. "I want the version of us that still believed in each other. Even if it was messy. Even if we were figuring it out."
Her shoulders dropped. "We were never just a version, Andres. We were real. Even in the silence. Even in the space. That's what made it harder."
He studied her, as if searching for the truth in her eyes. "Why didn't you say something when you saw the blossom?"
"Because," she whispered, "I didn't think you'd still be the kind of person who remembered."
His gaze didn't waver. "I never stopped being that person."
For a brief second, the hallway didn't feel cold anymore. Something warm and heavy flickered between them—yearning, guilt, longing, love.
He stepped forward again, now within arm's reach. He didn't touch her. Not yet. But he looked at her like he wanted to.
"I know I messed up. I know I waited too long, and I watched you drift. I let you go without pulling you back."
Her eyes shimmered. "And I let myself think you didn't care. When you did."
He tilted his head, his voice rough. "I always did. I just… I thought I'd ruin you if I got too close again."
"You didn't ruin me," she said. "You hurt me. But I think… I hurt you too."
Their confessions hung like fragile ornaments, one wrong word away from shattering.
She glanced at the blossom again. "You still remembered."
He smiled faintly. "Always."
They stared at each other in silence, hearts exposed, old wounds breathing.
Then, slowly, Ashtine reached for the blossom again. But this time, she didn't pick it up. She placed her hand on the table and looked up at him.
"We're not okay yet," she said. "But maybe… we're not lost either."
Andres nodded once. "I'll wait. Even if it takes time."
She didn't smile. But her eyes softened. "Just don't forget again."
"Never."
And with that, she turned and walked down the hallway—not away this time, but toward the music. Toward the lights. Toward something that could maybe be repaired.
Andres stood there a little longer, the flower resting gently on the table between them. He watched her until she disappeared into the party, and then, slowly, he followed.
He still remembered.
She still hoped.