Chapter 7 #3
We stop in front of what looks like a small church, its facade worn smooth by centuries.
“We’re breaking into a church? At ten p.m.?”
"Chapel, actually.” He holds up a key. “And it's not breaking in when you have the key."
The heavy wooden door swings open to reveal something that steals my breath. The entire space glows with candlelight, hundreds of candles placed with careful intention throughout what was once a sanctuary.
Art covers every available surface: paintings that seem to move in the flickering light, sculptures that cast dancing shadows, installations that transform the sacred space into something entirely new yet somehow still holy.
"The chapel burned down about eight years ago," Nate explains, his voice hushed in the reverent way people speak in spaces that demand respect.
"It sat empty for years until the community decided to rebuild it as a shelter for women and children. Now it's a gallery. Local artists exhibit here, and all the proceeds go back into community programs."
I turn slowly, taking in the transformation.
"It's incredible."
"The current exhibition is by a friend of mine, Valentina. She gave me the keys for tonight." He moves through the space with familiarity, pointing out pieces that speak to him.
"The whole show is inspired by the sky—day and night, the way light changes everything it touches. She says the sky is the same everywhere, but we all see it differently depending on where we're standing."
"So Valentina is..." I start, then trail off, not sure how to finish the question without revealing the jealousy that's been growing like a vine through my chest all evening.
Nate's smirk is knowing.
"Just a really good friend. Come on, there's something I really want to show you."
We approach a door at the back of the space, and he stops suddenly, turning to face me.
"Close your eyes."
"Nate—"
He steps closer, and suddenly we're sharing the same air, the same small circle of candlelight.
His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"Trust me. Please."
I let my eyes fall shut, and immediately the world becomes texture and sound and sensation. I hear the door open, feel his hand settle against the small of my back—warm and sure and sending electricity up my spine.
He guides me forward slowly, and I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me, the careful way he steers me around obstacles I can't see.
"Okay," he says softly. "Open."
When I do, I forget how to breathe.
The room has been transformed into a galaxy.
Thousands of tiny lights hang from the ceiling at different heights, creating the illusion of floating among stars. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting the lights infinitely until the boundaries of the room disappear entirely.
In the center, a projection maps constellations across the floor, slowly rotating as if we're spinning through space itself. It's like standing inside the universe's heartbeat, surrounded by the vast and beautiful mystery of everything we can't fully understand.
"Happy eighteenth birthday, Len." He whispers from behind me.
The close proximity sends shockwaves through my entire nervous system.
"Oh my... wow." My voice comes out breathless, overwhelmed.
"I can't claim I did this all on my own."
My heart beats harder than ever and all I can think is, "You know, if this moment had a song," I whisper, "it would be 'Champagne Supernova.'"
"Yeah?" His voice is soft, curious. "Why's that?"
I turn to look at him, and in the soft starlight, his face is open and wondering. For a moment, we're not complicated by history or other people or the careful distance we've been maintaining.
We're just two people floating among artificial stars, sharing something beautiful.
"Because this might be one of my favorite moments. Ever."
Nate’s gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than feels fair, warmth softening the sharp blue of his eyes. Then he slips a hand behind him.
Before I can ask, he pulls my camera—the one he bought me—from his back pocket.
“I grabbed it before we left,” he says, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Figured this could be a moment to capture.”
He lifts it, frames me without warning.
I barely have time to breathe before the shutter snaps.
“Nate!” I laugh, instinctively bringing a hand to my face. “You didn’t even warn me.”
“You didn’t need warning,” he says, lowering the camera but not looking away from me. “That one’s perfect.”
“Oh, is it?” I arch a brow.
“When you get these developed,” he hesitates, and the softness in his voice almost undoes me. “Can I have that one?”
“You want a photo of me?” I ask, my voice not nearly as steady as I wish it were.
“I want that photo of you,” he says, nodding at the camera like it’s holding something sacred. “Exactly how you looked right now.”
And fuck.
The way he's looking at me now makes my heart physically stutter, which I didn't even think was possible.
But here we are, existing in a moment that should have also been impossible.
"I missed this," he says quietly.
"Missed what?"
"You."
My heart swells with dangerous hope.
But before I can fall too far into his eyes, I force myself to turn away.
I can't do this again.
Not when so many things are still unclear.
Not when I don't even know if my heart has fully healed—but then again, does it ever?
Maybe that's the wrong question entirely.
Maybe hearts aren't meant to heal like broken bones, clean and complete and stronger than before.
Maybe we don't heal—we just get better at carrying our broken pieces, learning to move carefully so nothing else shatters, until one day we realize that being fragile doesn't mean being weak.
I walk toward one of the installations—a sculpture of intertwined metal that casts constellation shadows on the wall.
My fingers trace the air around it, careful not to touch, while I try to steady my breathing and remember all the reasons this can't happen.
I mean he’s here, talking about travelling for an international tour next year and I have no plans on leaving London.
Then there’s also our history, yes.
But also because of Luiza, who fits into his new life in ways I'm still learning to navigate. And if there's something between them, I can't let myself become another complication in his carefully reconstructed world.
I can feel the weight of his gaze on my back, and every rational thought I'm trying to hold onto seems to evaporate in the artificial starlight.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just walks over and finds his place beside me. I feel him before I fully register how close he is, it’s in the quiet shift in the air that always seems to happen when he’s close.
His shoulder brushes mine as he settles, a small, familiar contact that sends a warm, unwelcome rush through me.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
The projected starlight moves across his face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, and something in my chest tightens. It’s stupid, but my fingers actually twitch with the urge to reach out, to touch him like I used to.
The space between us feels loaded.
Not dramatic, just full—like we’re hovering on the edge of something neither of us is ready to name. I can hear his breathing, the quiet rhythm of it, and the part of me trying to stay detached wonders why it suddenly matters so much.
“On nights when I wanted to feel close to Dad,” I say quietly, almost without thinking, “I’d look up at the sky. Not at the bright stuff—just the space between. It made me feel like he was still there somehow. Like the things you can’t see are still holding everything together.”
Nate doesn’t look at me, but I see his jaw shift, the way it always does when something hits deeper than he expected.
A long moment passes before he speaks, his voice low.
“There were nights I’d look up too,” he says. “See the moon, the stars and wonder if you were seeing the same thing.”
The words leave him like he didn’t plan to say them.
They hang there between us, fragile and impossible to ignore. My breath stutters, because for a second it feels like we’ve slipped back into an old version of ourselves—one where honesty didn’t feel like stepping into a minefield.
I don’t know what to do with the confession. I don’t know what he expects. So I keep my eyes on the slow movement of the constellations, pretending to study them even as my heart thuds too loudly in my ears.
The room feels suspended, as if time has stalled around us.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks again.
We just stand there, shoulders brushing, breathing the same quiet air, caught somewhere between the life we lived and the one we’re both afraid to imagine.
And for a moment—just a moment—it feels like the whole universe is waiting to see what we’ll do next.