WHEN EYES MEET AGAIN

**CHAPTER THREE

WHEN EYES MEET AGAIN**

Eliana arrived early the next morning.

Too early.

She didn’t want to admit—to herself or to anyone—that she had hardly slept. The city was still stretching awake as she stepped into Evercrest Towers. Staff trickled in, greeting one another with soft “good mornings,” and the air smelled faintly of fresh coffee and new ambition.

She walked to the lift, heart steady but mind restless.

“Good morning, ma,” the security guard greeted.

“Good morning,” she replied with a small smile.

As the lift doors slid open, she stepped inside. The ride to the 17th floor felt longer than yesterday’s. She held her laptop bag tight, mentally rehearsing her design ideas.

Focus. Professional. No emotions.

But the moment she stepped out, her resolve wavered.

Jamal was already there.

Standing by the glass railing. Hands in his pockets.

Waiting.

He turned when he sensed movement, and their eyes met — again.

The moment stretched.

“Morning,” Jamal said, his voice warm and calm.

“Good morning,” Eliana replied, but her voice betrayed her slightly — softer than she intended.

He walked toward her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Confident as always.

“You’re early,” he said.

“So are you.”

His lips curved. “I didn’t want you waiting.”

Something caught in her chest.

He said it casually — too casually — but it landed where it shouldn’t.

She cleared her throat.

“We should start with the interface frames. I drafted a few overnight—”

“You worked overnight?” he interrupted gently.

“I had ideas flowing.”

“You always work too hard when you’re inspired,” he said, and the familiarity in his tone pierced her guard.

Eliana turned slightly toward the conference room.

“Let’s get started.”

He followed.

Inside the conference room, she connected her laptop to the screen. Jamal took the seat beside her rather than across the table.

She shot him a glance.

“There are other seats,” she noted lightly.

“I know,” he said simply.

She looked back at the screen quickly, pretending to adjust the brightness.

This man would be the end of her composure.

“Let’s begin,” she said.

The interface appeared on the screen — clean white spaces, bold icons, and touches of royal blue. She explained each section, guiding him through user flows and customer pain points.

Every so often, she felt him watching her closely.

Not her work.

Her.

At one point she paused, a little self-conscious, and asked, “Do you have any feedback so far?”

Jamal leaned forward, studying the screen thoughtfully.

“This feels like us,” he said.

Eliana blinked. “Us?”

He corrected himself softly.

“I mean the brand. It feels like our company’s growth. Mature. Clear. Confident.”

But the slight slip didn’t go unnoticed.

She pretended not to react.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “You’ve captured something meaningful here. You always had an eye for what people feel, not just what they see.”

The compliment was unexpected — too personal, too rooted in who she used to be.

Her voice came out smaller than she liked.

“Let’s… move to the next frame.”

She tapped her keyboard.

Halfway through her explanation, she felt his gaze again.

Not distracting — more like searching.

Finally, she had to ask quietly, still looking at the screen:

“Why are you staring?”

Jamal’s voice was low, honest.

“You haven’t changed.”

Her breath hitched.

“People change,” she replied.

“Not in the ways that matter,” he said.

Eliana forced her heartbeat to relax.

She didn’t respond.

The air between them thickened again, the unspoken history pressing its way to the surface.

Later, as they took a short break, Jamal stepped out to answer a call. Eliana stayed behind, massaging her temples.

This was becoming too much.

She looked out through the glass walls at the Lagos skyline.

Five years ago, she had dreamed of building a life here with him.

Five years ago, everything felt possible.

Until it wasn’t.

She hugged her arms around herself.

“Why now?” she murmured.

Why had destiny brought them back into each other’s orbit after all this time?

She didn’t hear Jamal return until he spoke softly behind her.

“Eliana.”

She turned, startled.

He wasn’t smiling.

His expression was serious — almost unreadable.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

Her pulse quickened.

“About what?”

“About us.”

Her heart dropped.

“No,” she said immediately.

“Eliana—”

“I said no, Jamal. We have work to do. That’s all we need to talk about.”

He stepped closer, his tone controlled but warm.

“Eliana, five years passed. That’s a long time to pretend nothing happened.”

She looked away.

“It’s also a long time to realise some things are better left in the past.”

He inhaled slowly, deeply.

“And do you believe that?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn’t move.

“Eliana,” he said again, softer now, “look at me.”

Against her will, she lifted her eyes.

Their gazes collided — this time with no polite distance, no professional masks.

And in that moment, she knew:

He still felt everything.

And she had never fully stopped feeling it too.

Which frightened her more than anything.

She stepped back.

“We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered.

Jamal didn’t move.

His voice was firm yet gentle.

“I’m not asking for anything today. I just want honesty between us again.”

She shook her head, her chest tightening.

“Honesty hurts, Jamal.”

“And silence hurts more,” he said.

She swallowed hard.

He was right.

He had always been right about her.

But she wasn’t ready.

Maybe she would never be.

“I need to focus on the project,” she said finally. “That’s all.”

Jamal studied her for a long, quiet moment.

Then he nodded slowly — not in agreement, but in understanding.

“For now,” he said.

Her heart clenched.

His tone… the certainty in it… scared her.

“For now,” he repeated softly, eyes never leaving hers,

“but not forever.”

That evening, as she left the building, Eliana caught her reflection in the glass door — steady on the outside, shaken on the inside.

She whispered to herself:

“Don’t fall again. Don’t fall again.”

But deep inside, a tiny voice answered:

It may already be too late.