Semua Bab Against all odds : Bab 101 - Bab 110

Luca's Pov The first time I felt his eyes on me again, I thought I was imagining it. My chest tightened, and I almost dropped the glass of wine in my hand. It had been months since I left that city, months since I swore to myself that Elliott Knight was no longer my story. And yet, when I turned ever so slightly, I caught the shadow of him lingering at the edges of the gallery. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak. But I knew. I always knew.I forced myself to laugh louder at the curator’s joke, even though I didn’t find it funny. My smile hurt, my cheeks burned, but I needed the mask. The last thing I could afford was to let him see me falter. This world I’d built—the anonymity, the clean slate, the art signed under a borrowed name—was mine. Mine alone. And Elliott had no right to it.Still, when I returned to my apartment that night, I sat in the dark for hours, my sketchbook untouched. His face haunted me. That same face I had once woken up to, traced with my fingertips, memo

Elliott’s POVThe next morning, I woke up with Luca’s face still burned into my memory. I hadn’t approached him last night, but the image of him standing there, laughing, alive, and brighter than I remembered, clung to me like oxygen. It was both relief and punishment. Relief because he was here. Punishment because I still wasn’t by his side.I sat on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, telling myself I needed a plan. Walking up to him and blurting an apology wouldn’t undo years of silence and pain. I had to tread carefully, build trust brick by brick. But every part of me screamed to run back to that gallery and beg him to look at me again.By noon, I found myself walking past the gallery anyway. My hands were shoved deep into my pockets, heart pounding like I was twenty again. Through the glass windows, I saw his work displayed—colors bolder, sharper, carrying fragments of pain and hope tangled together. He was telling his story without saying a word.And then, he appeared again.

Luca’s POVI didn’t notice him at first. My focus had been on the gallery, on making sure everything was in place for the exhibit. The lighting. The placement. The way people interacted with my work. For years, art was the only thing I trusted to speak for me. Words had failed. People had failed. But my canvases never did.Then, I felt it—eyes on me. Not the casual kind of attention an artist gets. Something heavier. Something I knew in my bones. I glanced across the room and froze. Elliott. He was standing there, rooted, as if the floor had swallowed his feet whole.My heart stuttered. After all these years, after everything, he was here. I should’ve looked away, should’ve kept walking. Instead, I lingered. Just long enough for his gaze to lock with mine. It was like being pulled into a current I’d sworn I’d never drown in again.I turned back quickly, forcing my attention on the person beside me. A collector, I think. They were saying something about texture and color, but I didn’t

Elliott’s POVI couldn’t sleep after seeing Luca again. His face kept replaying in my head like a film stuck on a loop. The laughter, the way his eyes sparkled when he was talking to that man—it dug into me. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of my hotel room, feeling the ache of all the years I had wasted.Every part of me wanted to storm into his life right then, to demand that he look at me, listen to me, give me a chance to explain. But I knew better. If I rushed in too fast, I’d lose him all over again. This time I needed patience, no matter how badly my heart screamed otherwise.The next morning, I went back to the gallery. I told myself it was for the art, but that was a lie. It was for him. I stood among the pieces, tracing every brushstroke like they were pieces of him left behind for me to collect. His art had changed—it was freer, wilder, but still filled with the depth I remembered.I spotted him again. Across the room, head tilted, discussing something with a curator. M

Luca pov The city felt different tonight. The streets were alive with chatter, lights flickering against wet pavement, but none of it touched me. I walked through it like a shadow, my mind elsewhere, trapped in the memory of Elliott standing across that gallery room. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, but I had felt the weight of his eyes like fire on my skin.I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I had closed that chapter. But even now, every step felt heavy with the knowledge that he was near, watching. It wasn’t anger that stirred inside me anymore—it was something softer, far more dangerous. Hope. And I hated myself for letting it linger.Back at the studio, I tried to lose myself in my work. Canvases leaned against the walls, sketches scattered across the table, colors waiting to be born. My brush moved, but my hand betrayed me. The strokes became too sharp, too desperate, carrying emotions I refused to name. Every shade whispered of him, and no matter how much I tried, his