Pages We Never Burned

I stayed up all night reading the journal I thought I’d buried with my past. It was supposed to be just paper, Ink, closed chapter. But the words I wrote about Luca all those years ago—they’re still alive. 

I flip to a page I haven’t dared touch in years. The one with the tearstain at the edge, the day I found out he left New York without a word.

// “If love is fire, then he was the flame I walked into, knowing it would burn. And I’d do it again, every time, just to feel it.”

That was before Daniel. Before marriage. Before mortgages and quiet dinners and scheduling sex like appointments. I press the page to my chest, exhaling slowly. My body still remembers the shape of Luca’s kiss. The urgency in his voice. The way he held my face like I was something precious, not just desired.

It’s 3 a.m., and I’m curled up on our bed alone, staring at the space Daniel once filled. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t come home. And I don’t know what’s worse—his silence or my longing for the wrong man. No. I need to stop calling Luca that. Because the more I think about it… maybe he wasn’t the wrong man. Maybe the timing was just wrong.

*****

The next morning, I call in sick to my art studio. I can’t face people today. Not with my life unraveling around me. Instead, I walk through Central Park like a ghost. My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—then I see the message.

// “If you’re reading this, it means you’re not ready to let me go either. I’m at the old greenhouse, same place we used to sneak into. Come if you want to remember who you are. –L.”

My stomach flips. The old greenhouse. I haven’t been there since I was twenty. We used to lie on the broken benches and talk about the life we were going to run away and build. In Florence. In Paris. Anywhere but here. I don’t text back. I just go.

The greenhouse is abandoned, tangled with ivy and silence. The city forgot it, but I didn’t. Neither did he. Luca is already there. He’s sitting on the same bench, legs stretched out, his fingers trailing a scar on the wood I once carved my name into. He looks up as I approach. “You came.”

I nod, breath caught in my throat. “I didn’t think I would.”

“But you did.”

Silence.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” I confess. He watches me quietly. “Daniel found the journal,” I continue. “He gave me an ultimatum.”

Luca doesn’t flinch. “So why are you here?”

I shake my head. “Because I don’t know what the hell I want anymore.”

He stands and walks toward me slowly, eyes locked on mine. “That’s not true.”

I back up a step. “You think you know me?”

“I’ve known you since you were nineteen. I knew you when your hair was shorter and your dreams were louder. I know your laugh when you’re pretending not to cry. I know the way you touch your necklace when you’re nervous.” He pauses. “You’re doing it now.”

My hand drops from my throat. He’s right.

I look at him and see everything I ran from. Everything I buried under safety and good choices and years of pretending Daniel was enough.

“I’m married, Luca.”

He steps closer. “But are you still in love?”

I open my mouth, then close it. He takes another step. Now we’re only inches apart.

“I don’t want to ruin your life, Ari. I just want to give you a piece of yourself back.”

His hand lifts, slow, tentative. He brushes my cheek. My knees almost buckle.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers.

Then he kisses me. Soft. Careful. Like he’s scared I’ll vanish. And for a moment—God, just a moment—I let myself feel it. Not duty, not guilt, just him. Luca. The boy who once made me believe in forever. The man who still does.

I pull away first. Barely breathing. “We can’t do this,” I whisper.

He nods. “I know.”

But the heat between us doesn’t lie.

I touch my lips. “I should go.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t beg.

That’s what makes it harder. I walk away with his kiss still on my mouth and my marriage still broken behind me.

*****

When I get home, Daniel is there. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter with a suitcase by his feet. My heart drops. “You’re leaving?”

He doesn’t look at me. “No. You are.”

“What?”

He finally meets my eyes. “You’ve made your choice. I’m not going to sit here and wait to be picked like some afterthought. You want him? Go. But don’t come back when he ruins you again.”

The coldness in his voice stings more than it should.

“Daniel, please—”

“No.” He stands. “I won’t compete with a fantasy anymore.”

“I kissed him,” I say suddenly.

His jaw tightens. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Yet.” 

Ouch.

He grabs his keys. “I booked you a hotel. One night. After that, figure out where you belong.”

He leaves before I can say another word. That night, I lie in a sterile hotel bed with my phone clutched to my chest. I stare at Daniel’s contact. Then Luca’s. I do not call either of them. I just stare at the ceiling and wonder when my life stopped being mine.

In the morning, a knock wakes me. I drag myself to the door, half-asleep, expecting a maid or room service. But it’s not. It’s Luca.

Holding coffee. And a painting. My painting. One I thought I’d thrown away years ago—unfinished with brushstrokes of a skyline we once talked about living under. “How—?”

“You left it in my apartment,” he says. “Back when we still thought we could beat the world.” He holds it out. “It’s not finished. Just like us.”

I take it slowly, chest tightening.

“I’m not here to pressure you, Ari,” he adds. “But I won’t pretend either. If you walk away again, I’ll let you. But if you don’t—if you stay this time—I won’t let go.”

I say nothing. Not yet. But I do not close the door either. And he stood, patient.