Held in Silence

I didn't sleep well the night after the gala.

Not because anything had gone wrong—but because nothing had. And that silence, that tension left hanging in the air like a question no one dared to ask, kept playing in my head long after I'd taken off the black silk dress and scrubbed off every trace of makeup.

He'd nearly kissed me.

Or I'd nearly kissed him.

Or maybe we had both thought about it and both decided not to at the last second.

I don't know.

But I remembered the way his gaze lingered, the way his hand settled on my back like it had always belonged there. I remembered the feeling of his warmth at my side when we stepped out of the car and faced the flashes of a hundred cameras.

And I remembered how none of it felt fake.

That was what scared me the most.

In the morning, I brewed coffee before anyone else was awake and took it to the garden. The dew clung to the blades of grass, and the fountain made its usual rhythmic trickle, soft and steady. It was one of the few places I felt like I could breathe in this house.

My phone buzzed beside me.

It was an unfamiliar number.

I almost didn't answer.

But something about it—maybe the time, or the stillness of the moment—made me swipe the screen.

"Hello?"

A pause. The voice I heard on the other end made me relive the year.

"Lara."

Evan.

I felt the breath leave my body like a sudden punch.

"I… didn't expect you to answer," he continued, voice quieter now.

"Why are you calling me?"

"I thought you were ready to talk now."

I almost laughed. "You didn't call to just check on me, did you?"

"No. I called because I saw your photo. Online. At some event. You looked…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

I didn't help him.

He cleared his throat. "I'm in town. Just for a few days. I was wondering if we could meet."

"No."

His silence stretched long.

"No?" he echoed, like he hadn't expected me to refuse.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," I said. "Not now."

"Lara—"

"I have to go."

And I hung up.

My hand trembled slightly, not because I missed him. I didn't. I truly didn't.

But I hated that he still thought he had a place in my life. That he could leave, and return, and imagine I would still be standing in the same spot.

I wasn't.

Or at least—I was trying not to be.

When I returned inside, Richard was already downstairs, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with his tie undone. He glanced up from his tablet.

"You're up early."

"I needed air."

He studied my face for a moment longer than necessary.

"Everything alright?"

I hesitated. "Just someone from my past trying to come back."

His expression didn't shift. But something in his posture tightened.

"Someone important?"

"Not anymore."

He nodded once and returned to his tablet, but I knew he wasn't reading anymore.

And that meant more to me than any question he could've asked.

That afternoon, I found myself wandering through the lesser-used side of the estate. The art wing. I had only visited it once before—on a rainy day when I didn't want to return to my room.

It smelled like dust and old paint and time.

There was one painting I always came back to—a chaotic mess of colors layered so thickly that you couldn't tell where one brushstroke ended and another began. It wasn't beautiful in a traditional sense. But if you stared long enough, you began to see patterns.

Small moments of calm between the storms.

I sat on the bench across from it and exhaled slowly.

"Everyone hates that one."

I turned.

Richard stood in the doorway, jacket in hand, tie finally fixed.

"Then why is it still here?" I asked.

"My mother liked it."

That stunned me. We had never spoken of his family before—not like that. Not so plainly.

"She said it reminded her of me," he added after a beat.

I looked at the painting again. At the messy, knotted swirls. The violent reds and mournful blues.

"Maybe she meant it as a compliment," I said softly.

His eyes met mine, and for the first time, there was something unguarded in them.

"She didn't say much of anything. Not really."

I didn't know what to say to that.

But I didn't look away either.

We walked the gallery in silence after that.

There were no more conversations about mothers or paintings. Just the sound of our steps echoing through empty marble rooms and the occasional creak of floorboards under ancient rugs.

At one point, I stumbled slightly over a raised edge near a sculpture. Richard's hand caught my arm—firm, reflexive.

"Careful."

His touch lingered. Again.

Not out of necessity.

Out of something else.

This time, I didn't step away.

I looked at him.

At the barely-visible flecks of green in his eyes. At the line of his jaw. At the hand still wrapped around my arm like it had forgotten how to let go.

"Richard."

He blinked. "Yes?"

"I don't want this to be pretend anymore."

There. I'd said it.

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

I waited, pulse thudding, nerves coiling tighter with each passing second.

Finally, he let go. Slowly. Gently.

"I know," he said. "I don't either."

But he didn't kiss me.

Didn't step closer.

Didn't offer more.

And somehow, that answer broke me a little more than silence would have.

That night, I sat at my desk, pen poised over my journal, and wrote something I wasn't sure I'd ever say aloud:

I think I'm falling for him.

And I don't know if he's falling too—or just standing close enough to make me believe he might.