Chapter 3:COMING HOME
894 Words
Chapter 3:Coming Home
Two years later, Emilia stood outside a gallery in downtown Brooklyn, clutching a tiny bouquet of sunflowers and an invitation printed on thick, creamy paper:
“Urban Pulse: New Works by Theo Rivera”
It still made her heart race to read his name like that—on a wall, on a flyer, on anything official. He used to be “Theo, the guy in my way at the coffee shop.” Now, he was Theo Rivera, city-renowned muralist and gallery artist.
And still, somehow, hers.
They hadn’t seen each other in three months. Her spring semester had kept her locked in studios and Zoom critiques, while Theo was traveling through Lisbon and Amsterdam for a community mural initiative. They kept in touch, of course—FaceTime, emails, and chaotic voice notes that made her laugh at 2 a.m.
But long-distance love was hard.
Now he was back. And this time, it wasn’t temporary.
As she stepped into the gallery, she felt it—that familiar buzz of his world. Color. Chaos. Boldness.
His art was everywhere.
Cityscapes with breathing hearts. Abstract skylines that looked like they were alive. And in the center of it all, a massive, glowing piece titled “Em”—a collage of every sketch he’d made of her, layered with fragments of their old mural, latte sleeves, and scribbled notes like “You probably hate me less today.”
Emilia stared at it, stunned.
A warm voice behind her said, “You like it?”
She turned.
There he was.
Theo.
Older, sharper, taller, but the same crooked grin. The same spark.
He wore a fitted black jacket and jeans, his curls more tamed, a paint smudge on his wrist like a signature.
“I love it,” she said, breathless.
“I told myself I’d only show it when I knew you’d be in the room.”
She looked up at him. “Theo… It’s incredible.”
He gave a lopsided smile. “You were always the best thing I never planned.”
Before she could respond, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded page—weathered, creased at the corners.
She took it. It was one of their old coffee shop receipts.
On the back, in tiny blocky handwriting:
“You + me = probably fate.”
Her throat tightened.
“I had no clue what I was doing when I first met you,” he said. “But now, I know what I want.”
He took her hand.
“You.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I never stopped wanting you.”
The gallery around them buzzed with voices, camera shutters, critics scribbling notes—but they didn’t hear any of it.
They kissed, slow and warm and familiar. A kiss that didn’t say I missed you, but I’m staying.
A few weeks later, Theo moved into a small, sunny apartment with too many windows and not enough shelves for Emilia’s books or his paint cans.
They figured it out together.
They argued over what color to paint the bathroom.
They debated whether oat milk or almond milk was the real coffee enhancer.
They made up in even more creative ways.
On weekends, Emilia took freelance design jobs while working on her first portfolio. Theo opened a community art studio for kids like the one he used to be—restless, overlooked, brilliant.
They were messy and in love and real.
Every morning, he still blocked the door at Café Tiamo.
Every morning, she still told him to move.
Every morning, he handed her a latte with a note on the cup.
Like:
“Still hate me?”
“You looked extra cute in your sleep.”
“I saved you the last tuna roll.”
One morning, the note read:
“Marry me?”
She laughed out loud, then looked up—he was already on one knee, holding out a ring he’d designed himself.
“You better say yes,” he said. “Or I’ll haunt your coffee shop forever.”
She said yes, with tears on her cheeks and coffee in her hand.
Their wedding was small—just friends, family, and one moody barista from Café Tiamo. They painted the invitations together. Theo wore paint-splattered shoes. Emilia walked down the aisle to the soft strum of a guitar and the sound of everyone crying happy tears.
He whispered “I probably love you most in the world” during the vows.
She whispered back “Drop the ‘probably.’”
They spent their honeymoon painting a mural on a beachside wall in Portugal: two silhouettes in front of a sunrise, laughing, tangled in each other, forever in motion.
The city they’d fallen in love with still buzzed, still glowed, still carried their story in its walls and sidewalks.
And every year on the anniversary of their first kiss, they went back to the Franklin rooftop, watching the skyline in silence.
Just holding hands.
And smiling wondering how everything became possible.
But this was their fate.
Emilia would always say to him, I promise to be by your side no matter how bad things get.
This melted his heart and he kept saying to his self I was blessed with the most wonderful woman. So they had fun and shared a wonderful time.
- Writer
