“Goodbye, Soma,” she whispered. “Finish the painting without me.”

Miru fell into his arms and cried—for the girl she had been, for the woman she was, for the love that had never once asked her to be anyone but herself.

The conflict grew sharper each day. By day, she was Kenji’s devoted wife—packing his lunches, laughing at his terrible puns, falling asleep to the rhythm of his breathing. By night, she stared at the ceiling, haunted by Soma’s voice, by the ghost of a girl she used to be. She realized she was not tempted by Soma as a person, but by the feeling he awakened: the feeling of being seen as wild, unfinished, urgent.