The Road Back to You

Violet stood at the front of the gallery, the soft hum of conversations fading as the spotlight landed on her. The weight of so many eyes on her should have made her nervous, but she stood tall, the confidence in her stance masking the storm within.

"First of all," she began, her voice smooth and steady, "thank you all for being here tonight. This gallery... this dream... started as just an idea. A collection of emotions I never knew how to say out loud. But art has a way of speaking when words fail us, doesn't it?" she smiled, letting her gaze sweep over the audience. "Every painting here holds a story. Some are loud and chaotic, some quiet and aching, but each one carries a piece of me."

There was a pause... a moment where her chest tightened, but she didn't let it show. "I hope tonight, you see not just the colors on canvas, but the emotions behind them. I hope you find a story that speaks to you."

Then, she turned slightly, her gaze settling on a small section of the crowd.

"And I wouldn't be standing here without my people," she added with a softer smile. "Jade, Kathy, Liam—" she looked at each of them, warmth in her voice, "you guys are my backbone. From the late nights of planning to tolerating my absolute meltdowns, this wouldn't have been possible without you."

"She thanked me. I can die in peace now," Liam dramatically wiped an invisible tear. 

Laughter rippled through the room, making Violet shake her head.

"But truly," she continued, "you all have been my home when I didn't know I needed one. So, thank you."

Applause erupted, and her chest swelled with a mix of pride and gratitude.

Then came the questions.

"Your art carries a lot of emotion, almost as if each stroke has a personal history," a woman in the front row observed. "Do you paint from personal experience?"

"I think every artist does, in some way. Even when we don't intend to, parts of our own stories slip into the work. Art is honest like that," Violet smiled, composed. 

"There's a recurring theme of longing in many of your pieces. Would you say your work is inspired by love or loss?" another hand went up. 

Her fingers curled around the microphone, just slightly. A version of her, one from years ago, might have stumbled on that question. But not this Violet.

"Both," she answered smoothly. "Love and loss go hand in hand, don't they? You can't experience one without understanding the weight of the other. Some paintings reflect love that was once whole, while others capture the echoes of something left behind."

A murmur passed through the crowd, appreciating her insight.

But then... 

"Do you believe lost love can be found again?"

The question came from a voice in the back, a man's voice. It was deep, steady, familiar in a way that made something in her chest tighten painfully.

She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

The air in the room felt heavier, or maybe it was just her imagination. She couldn't see the speaker through the crowd, but something about the question settled in her bones like an unfinished sentence.

Still, she didn't falter. Her expression remained poised. "I believe love has its own journey," she answered carefully. "Sometimes it finds its way back. Sometimes, it's meant to stay as a memory."

The room was silent for a beat before the conversation shifted.

But the unease lingered.

As the night continued, she moved through the gallery, shaking hands, listening to praises, discussing her work. But something was off.

A faint, familiar scent brushed past her—white musk.

Her breath caught. It was fleeting, but unmistakable. The kind of scent that could pull her through time, back to a different life. This is Ethan Sinclair. The lingering musk on his collar when he leaned too close. A scent Violet could never forget, no matter how much time passed.

She turned sharply, scanning the crowd. Nothing.

She was imagining it. She had to be.

Then, as she walked past one of her paintings, the one of a dimly lit street in the rain, a single silhouette in the distance... she noticed something.

Someone had lingered in front of it too long.

A man, standing still, his hands in his pockets. His posture was familiar, the way his shoulders tensed as if carrying the weight of something unseen.

She stepped forward, her heart in her throat... 

But before she could reach him, a group of people moved between them. And when they passed, he was gone.

Violet exhaled slowly, willing her heart to steady.

She was being ridiculous. It wasn't him. It couldn't be.

By the time the event wound down, the gallery hummed with the warmth of success. It had been an incredible night... better than she could have hoped. The paintings had been admired, stories had been shared, and the turnout had been overwhelming.

Violet finally allowed herself to exhale as she sank onto the couch in the private lounge area at the back of the gallery.

"This might just be the best night of our lives," Jade flopped down beside her. 

"Correction: This is the best night of our lives," Liam stretched, resting his arms behind his head. 

"Not to be dramatic, but I think we should celebrate forever," Kathy smirked while still holding a champagne flute. 

"If forever means staying here tonight because I'm too tired to even think about going home, then I agree," Violet chuckled, shaking her head. 

One by one, they all gave in. Too drained to leave, too high on the night's success to care. The gallery had soft couches, a stocked fridge, and enough warmth to make them feel at home.

So, they stayed.

As the last lights dimmed and the echoes of laughter faded, Violet leaned against the armrest of the couch, eyes fluttering shut.

At some point in the night, the stillness settled, and that's when she saw it...

A bouquet of white lilies sat on the gallery's front desk.

She didn't remember receiving them.

Frowning, she pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes before walking over. A small note was tucked between the petals. Her breath hitched the moment she saw the handwriting.

Familiar. Unmistakable.

With shaky fingers, she unfolded it.

And there it was... words she hadn't heard in years, words that once belonged to another time, another version of herself.

"You were always meant to shine, V."

Her heart stilled. The room was empty. But suddenly, it didn't feel that way.

She clutched the note, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Because there was only one person who had ever called her that.

Ethan.