Lily wasn't sure how long she stood there, staring at Mark, caught between the life she had built and the one she had left behind.
She should leave. Walk away. Pretend this was nothing more than a moment of weakness.
But she didn't.
Instead, she said the one thing she shouldn't have.
"Do you still have those old photographs of us?"
Mark's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face before something unreadable settled in his eyes. He studied her for a moment, as if trying to figure out why she had asked.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I never got rid of them."
Lily let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She had expected him to say no—that he had moved on, erased every trace of their past. But knowing he still had them stirred something deep inside her.
Without another word, Mark turned and walked toward a tall metal cabinet tucked into the corner of the studio. He pulled open the bottom drawer, rifling through old files until he found what he was looking for.
A weathered envelope. Thick. Filled with memories she had tried to forget.
He handed it to her, and for a moment, she hesitated. But then she opened it, her fingers grazing over the edges of the photos.
The first one was of them on a beach, the wind tossing her hair as Mark laughed beside her, his arm wrapped around her waist. She remembered that day. They had been reckless and wild, diving into the ocean fully clothed, kissing under the fading light of the sunset.
The second was of her asleep on his couch, a book resting on her chest. Mark must have taken it without her knowing. She looked peaceful. Content.
The third—
Lily sucked in a breath.
It was of them tangled in his sheets, her bare shoulder exposed, his hand resting possessively against her skin. It was intimate in a way that made her heart ache.
She quickly tucked the photos back into the envelope, suddenly overwhelmed.
"I shouldn't have come here," she muttered, stepping back.
Mark leaned against the table, watching her carefully. "But you did."
Lily shook her head, gripping the envelope tighter. "This was a mistake."
Mark didn't argue. He just studied her, as if waiting for her to admit the truth she was so desperately trying to ignore.
"What are you really afraid of, Lily?"
His voice was soft, but it hit her like a punch to the chest.
Everything.
She was afraid of the way he made her feel, of the way she had never quite let go of him. She was afraid that she had spent years convincing herself that she was happy when, deep down, she wasn't.
She was afraid that being here—standing in front of Mark again—wasn't just nostalgia.
It was temptation.
"I have to go," she said abruptly, turning toward the door.
Mark didn't stop her. He didn't reach for her or try to change her mind.
But as she walked away, he called out one last thing.
"You can lie to yourself, Lily. But don't lie to me."
Her steps faltered.
For a second, she almost turned back.
But she didn't.
She forced herself out the door, out of the past, out of the memories that felt too dangerous to hold onto.
But as she walked down the street, clutching that envelope like a lifeline, she realized something.
She might have left, but this wasn't over.
Not even close.