The Years Between Us

3. What Time Didn’t Fix

The fitting ended the way most things between us seemed to end now—without resolution. We eventually ended up in my office with coffee we barely touched, the air too heavy for something so ordinary. It felt like every breath was being held carefully in place, terrified to disturb what was already broken. Ezra didn’t say much, and neither did I. Only Nadine kept talking, filling the yawning spaces between us as if she could somehow stitch them shut with words alone.

Ezra had asked how I was, and I had simply answered, “Fine.”

He had looked at me for a few seconds too long after that, as if he didn’t believe me. Or perhaps he did, and that was what unsettled him most. After that, he stopped asking.

“Wait, so you two studied at Windele University? That’s so cool,” Nadine said brightly, entirely oblivious to the silence she kept trying to outrun. “That makes you seniors to me by like… ten years? I just graduated from Business. Ms. Adam, I mean.”

“I only studied there for a year,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I ever really became your senior, Ms. Rowe.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, curious. “Then is that why Ezra looked like he’d seen a ghost earlier? Did you just… disappear or something?”

“It—”

“I need to get back to the studio,” Ezra cut in sharply. The interruption was clean. Final.

Nadine blinked, caught off guard. “But you said there’s no shoot today—”

“Let’s go.” He was already standing, pulling her up with him before she could even finish her sentence. She barely had time to wave at me.

“See you again, Ms. Adam!”

And then they were gone, just like that, leaving me behind with untouched coffee and a silence that felt heavier than any sound.

By seven in the evening, the last lights in Lumiere were finally dimmed. Only the display windows remained glowing, casting a soft light over the gowns behind the glass, making them look as if they were still waiting for someone who might never arrive.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, just as I had on my first day back in Windele. A long, weary breath left my lips before I could stop it. Today felt endless, exhausting in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

“Meara.”

The voice broke through the quiet just as I turned toward my car. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Ezra Hale was standing a few steps away.

The bar he took me to was almost empty. Soft jazz played somewhere in the background, low enough to feel more like a memory than music. Warm, golden light spilled across low tables and velvet seating, reflecting faintly against the glass wall that opened to Windele’s night skyline.

I sat across from him, uncomfortable in a way I didn’t know how to hide. Ezra hadn’t said a single word since we arrived; he just drank, slowly, carefully, as if each sip was something he needed to think through first. Sometimes he looked at me, sometimes he didn’t. The silence between us didn’t feel peaceful; it felt suspended, like an object teetering on a ledge, waiting to fall.

“Ezra,” I said at last.

He turned his glass slightly in his hand, still refusing to look at me, as if he were waiting for me to decide what version of the truth I was willing to offer. But the truth was, I didn’t know where to start.

“I don’t know how to begin,” I admitted quietly.

Only then did he look away from the city lights. A faint, almost unreadable smile touched his lips. “I don’t think I do either,” he said. “I’ve spent years imagining this moment, Meara. But now that it’s here… none of it sounds right anymore.”

Something tightened painfully in my chest.

“I reached a point where I decided you were dead,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “It was easier that way. Easier than believing you left.” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “Because I don’t think I could have survived thinking you chose to go.”

The glass in his hand trembled faintly—not from alcohol, but from something much older. Something entirely unresolved. His eyes met mine again, and this time, there was no restraint left in them. There was only exhaustion, and a grief that had learned how to sit still.

“How is she?” he asked softly.

The question landed too sharply, completely wrong.

“Ezra, I think you’re drunk,” I said quickly—too quickly. My hand reached for my phone, searching for Nadine’s contact without thinking.

But before I could stand, Ezra caught my wrist. His grip wasn’t painful, but it stopped everything.

“Are you going to run again?” he asked. The words weren’t angry; they were broken.

I froze. I didn’t answer. I couldn't.

“Please, Meara…”

Something inside me tilted at the desperate way he said my name, like it still meant something he couldn’t bear to lose. And yet, all I could think about was leaving. Escaping. Exactly like he said I always did.

I pulled my hand free. “I’m sorry, Ezra. Let’s talk another time.”

I walked away fast, before anything inside me could convince me to stop. But Ezra followed. Of course he did—he always used to.

He caught up easily, taking my hand again—firmer this time—and guided me out of the bar before I could properly resist. It wasn’t painful, but it didn’t feel like him either. It felt like the action of someone holding on because letting go had never been an option.

The drive back was dead silent. Windele passed outside the windows in blurred streaks of light. Neither of us spoke, and neither of us pretended this was normal. Ten minutes later, his car came to a halt in front of Lumiere.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find any words that felt like they belonged in my mouth. Instead, my fingers moved unconsciously to the ring on my hand—a small, nervous habit.

Ezra noticed. Of course he did. His gaze shifted down, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“Give me time,” I said finally.

“Of course,” he replied. Simple. Flat. But I didn’t believe it for a second.

I opened the door, stepped out into the night, and didn’t look back. Ezra stayed in the driver’s seat, watching until I was safely inside. Only then did the engine rev, and he left.