Saturday came too fast.
Ama told herself she wasn't going. She had deadlines, an unfinished mural commission, and a gala to prepare for next week. But as the clock crept toward 6:45pm, she found herself standing in front of her closet, heart pounding, trying to decide between indifference and... curiosity.
Maya had been annoyingly silent about it all day, only offering one sentence as she walked out that morning:
"If you don't go, I'll go in your place and tell him you still draw his eyelashes from memory."
Ama nearly threw a pillow at her. But now, the note on her desk called to her like it had a heartbeat of its own.
At 6:58pm, she gave up pretending.
She threw on a long black coat, pulled her curls into a loose knot, and grabbed her sketchpad—just in case. Not for him. For control.
The old arts theatre had been closed for years. It stood like a sleeping memory in the middle of a gentrified neighborhood—forgotten but refusing to fall.
Ama climbed the narrow staircase to the rooftop, the echo of her boots bouncing against the past.
When she pushed open the heavy door, he was already there.
Jordan stood facing the city skyline, the orange of the sunset painting his figure in soft flame. He held something in his hands—a small wooden box, the kind that once held her favorite brushes.
He turned as she stepped out, and Ama saw the hesitation in his eyes.
"You came," he said, his voice quiet.
Ama crossed her arms. "I shouldn't have."
"But you did."
Silence.
Then: "Why here?"
He smiled faintly. "This is where we first kissed. After that student showcase, remember? You were furious the power went out."
"And you kissed me in the dark," Ama replied, almost despite herself. "Said it was the only light you needed."
"I meant it," Jordan said, stepping closer. "I still do."
Her guard shot back up. "Don't do that."
He nodded. "Right. No poetry. Just honesty."
He opened the box in his hands.
Inside was a new brush.
But this one was carved—with her initials, and beneath them:
"Create something that matters."
Ama felt her breath catch. The words were hers, from a lifetime ago.
"I left like a coward," Jordan said, voice breaking slightly. "I let fear and family expectations bury everything we had. But I've lived with that silence every day since. And if all I can do is stand here and remind you that your love changed me... then I'll keep standing."
The wind carried their silence.
Ama looked at the brush, then at him.
And her heart—her stubborn, broken, still-healing heart—whispered something she couldn't ignore:
Maybe beginnings don't always look like they used to.