Violet told herself this was for the best.
A fresh start. A change of scenery. A way to escape the weight of everything she was trying... and failing... to leave behind.
The art residency had come as a surprise, an opportunity she wouldn't have taken before. But now? Now, it felt like an escape route.
Two days. That's all it was.
Forty-eight hours away from the city where Ethan Sinclair existed in every street corner, in every late-night memory, in every glass of whiskey he drowned himself in. The thought unsettled her.
The last time she had seen him, he had been drinking. More than she had ever seen him drink before. And it wasn't just the alcohol that had haunted her... it was the recklessness in his eyes, the way he had spoken like a man with nothing left to lose.
She didn't want to care.
She shouldn't care.
But she did.
The morning before her flight, she dialed Jade's number.
"You sure you'll survive without me?" Jade joked as he picked up, his voice laced with sleep.
"Jade, I need you to do something for me," Violet sighed.
The teasing edge in his voice vanished. "What is it?"
"Ethan," she hesitated before saying it out loud.
"What about him?" Jade was quiet for a beat.
"I just…" she exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I know I shouldn't be thinking about this, but I can't help it. When I last saw him, he was drinking. A lot. And I don't know if he's stopped or if he's... "
"If he's spiraling again," Jade finished for her.
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her.
"I just need you to check on him while I'm gone. Just… make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
"Violet, you know you still love him, right?" Jade sighed, but there was understanding in his voice.
"That's not what this is about," her chest ached.
"Of course, it isn't," he said dryly. Then, softer, "I'll keep an eye on him. Go do your art thing."
"Thank you," she murmured, before hanging up.
Two days.
That was all she needed.
Except, even an entire city away, her thoughts betrayed her.
Every painting she worked on felt like an echo of something she was trying to suppress. Every brushstroke, every shade of blue, every scattered memory... he was everywhere.
She was restless that evening, unable to focus, when she heard a knock at the door.
Frowning, she crossed the room and opened it. There was no one there. Just a package at her doorstep.
Her breath caught.
No sender. No note.
Just her name, written in a handwriting she would recognize anywhere.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up, carried it inside, and placed it on the desk. She stared at it for a long moment before finally peeling back the paper.
A sketchbook.
Her heart pounded as she flipped it open. And then... she forgot how to breathe.
The first page was a sketch of her.
The night they met. The way she had looked at him... curious, cautious, like she wasn't sure if he was someone worth knowing.
She turned the page.
Their first argument, etched in sharp lines. The way her hands had been thrown up in exasperation, the defiance in her eyes, the smirk that had played on his lips.
Page after page.
Their stolen moments. Her laughing, mid-spin in his kitchen. Him watching her, unaware that she had caught him staring. The curve of her lips when she wasn't aware he was drawing her.
A sketch of her asleep on his couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies. A drawing of their hands, fingertips barely touching.
Then...
Her fingers stilled as she reached that night.
The night he left.
The storm. The way she had stood there, drenched, shattered, screaming his name as he walked away. Her fingers traced the pencil strokes, the pain embedded in them, the regret pressed into every line.
She swallowed hard. Her eyes burned as she turned to the final page.
It was blank.
Except for five words.
"I never stopped choosing you."
A strangled sound tore from her throat.
Violet choked back a sob, pressing a hand to her mouth, but it was useless. The dam broke. The tears came, hot and unrelenting, shaking through her as she held the sketchbook to her chest.
Because this... this wasn't just an apology. This wasn't just a plea.
This was Ethan Sinclair, a man who had spent his life designing homes for others, telling her that she was the only home he had ever wanted.
And she had walked away from him.
But maybe… maybe it wasn't too late to turn around.
The moment Violet landed back in the city, she didn't think. She just ran.
Her heart was pounding as she hailed a cab. The driver barely had time to nod before she was gripping the seat, legs bouncing restlessly. The rain outside blurred against the windows, matching the storm inside her chest.
Ethan had disappeared for days. She had asked Jade to check on him, but even Jade hadn't been able to get much out of him.
And then... he sent the sketchbook.
She clutched it tightly in her hands now, flipping through the pages for what felt like the hundredth time. Each sketch was a moment from their past, captured in the way only Ethan could... his designs, his careful lines, his soul woven into every stroke.
The cab came to a halt. She barely waited for the driver to stop before pushing the door open and rushing up the steps to Ethan's apartment. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the spare key she still had... because of course, she still had it.
She pushed the door open.
And what she saw made her breath catch.