Berlin – Winter
It started with a cigarette she didn't ask for.
Winter had stepped out of the gallery's back door for air, her nerves fried after an intense critique. Her latest piece—raw, exposed, full of veiled references to Eleanor—had drawn both awe and razor-edged debate.
A woman stood there already, leaning against the brick wall, smoking a thin, dark roll-up that smelled like clove and defiance.
"You look like you want to scream," she said in English, her accent dipped in French wine and Berlin grime.
"I want to vanish," Winter answered honestly.
The woman passed her the cigarette. "Same difference."
Her name was Camille. A painter, four years older. Sharp eyes, crooked smile. She lived two streets over and claimed her art was "emotional theft." She believed everything beautiful came from breaking rules—and that intimacy was a better canvas than any wall.
Winter didn't mean to spend an hour talking to her.
She didn't mean to laugh.
And she definitely didn't mean to feel that familiar twist in her stomach—the one that came not from attraction, but from being seen.
Camille noticed.
"You love someone else," she said. Not accusing. Just observing.
Winter froze.
"Yes."
Camille flicked ash into the wind. "Then why do your eyes keep looking at me like you forgot?"
Later, in her studio, Winter sat at her table and stared at her unfinished canvas. Her phone buzzed.
Eleanor: I booked a flight to Berlin. Two weeks. I couldn't stay away any longer. I need to see you.
Winter's lungs stalled. The guilt struck her harder than any kiss might have.
Because she hadn't touched Camille.
Hadn't even really wanted to.
But she'd paused.
And she hadn't told Eleanor about it.
Not because she was hiding something.
But because she didn't know what it meant yet.
And that scared her more than anything else.
Chicago – Eleanor
Eleanor felt lighter with each passing day in Chicago—more herself, more rooted. But sometimes, in the quiet after gallery meetings and grant proposals, she missed Winter so hard it physically ached.
She poured herself into planning the Berlin visit.
Chose a trench coat she thought Winter might steal.
Packed books with scribbled notes in the margins.
Practiced saying "Ich liebe dich" until she could whisper it without stumbling.
But still, something lingered under her skin.
A shadow of distance that wasn't just miles.
When she FaceTimed Winter that night, she caught it.
A flicker.
The kind of silence that wasn't born of exhaustion, but restraint.
Eleanor tilted her head. "You okay?"
Winter hesitated. "Just… a long day."
Eleanor studied her face on the screen. So familiar. So far away.
"Tell me something honest," she said gently. "Even if it's small."
Winter bit her lip.
Then looked down.
"I met someone. Just once. It was nothing. But it made me realize how far I am from you. And how fragile this feels sometimes."
The truth came like glass between them. Sharp. But clean.
Eleanor's chest tightened.
But her voice was calm. "Thank you for telling me."
Winter's eyes lifted. "Are you angry?"
"No," Eleanor said softly. "I'm scared. But not angry."
They didn't talk much more that night.
But when they hung up, they were still there—not shattered, not undone. Just honest.
And somehow, in that raw vulnerability, the bridge between them felt stronger.
Even if the winds were still trying to shake it.
Chicago – Eleanor
The bookstore was nearly empty—just the way Eleanor liked it.
Outside, Chicago was beginning its thaw, all slush and gray sidewalks and sharp wind. Inside, it smelled of old paper and cardamom from the café at the back. She was meant to pick up a book for Winter—an obscure volume of German expressionist poetry Winter had mentioned in passing.
The man behind the register looked up.
"Eleanor?"
It took her a breath to place him.
"Caleb?"
He looked… almost exactly the same. Older around the eyes, still too tall, still dressed like a man who hadn't quite let go of academia. A gray scarf wound twice around his neck. The air shifted.
"I didn't think you were still in Chicago," he said, stepping around the counter.
She smiled, cautious. "I didn't think you were still speaking to me."
He laughed, but his voice caught. "I wasn't. Until now, I guess."
Five years ago, Caleb was a colleague. And something more—for about three blurry, intense months that neither of them ever quite defined. He'd been her closest friend once. Maybe even someone she could've loved.
But Eleanor chose her career over comfort. She'd pulled away when it got too close, too inconvenient, too real. He'd walked away completely.
And yet here he was, offering her a coffee and a chair in the quiet corner near the philosophy section.
They talked.
About old students.
About the university.
About how everything felt like it was shifting and no one was sure what was still solid anymore.
Then—
"Are you happy?" he asked, out of nowhere.
She blinked. "That's a dangerous question."
Caleb smiled gently. "And?"
"I think so," she said after a beat. "I'm in love."
His smile didn't waver, but something behind his eyes shifted.
"Is it easy?" he asked.
"No," Eleanor admitted. "Not remotely. But it's real."
He looked at her like he could see every sharp edge she was trying to smooth over.
"I'm glad," he said. Then after a pause: "You still carry things quietly. I always admired that."
She could feel his words settle too closely under her ribs.
"Caleb…"
"I'm not trying to start something," he said quickly. "I just—remember who you were. And I guess I wondered who you are now."
She left without buying the book.
The air outside slapped her back into clarity.
She hadn't told him Winter's name. Or that she was a student. Or that they were still trying to survive what felt like a thousand unspoken judgments.
But the conversation stayed with her all the way home.
That night, she packed.
Winter's favorite sweater. A pair of boots she knew Winter liked stealing. A bottle of perfume she hadn't worn in months because it reminded her too much of who she'd been before all of this started.
And as she zipped the suitcase closed, she asked herself the question Caleb hadn't dared to say:
Am I the kind of person who stays?
The answer came quietly.
I'm going to try.