No More Half-Light

Liam had barely slept the night before. He’d spent the better part of the day pacing between his easel and the windows, painting nothing and thinking about everything. By the time the evening light started to dim, he gave in to the heaviness in his eyes and collapsed onto the couch, throwing an arm over his face.

Just a nap, he told himself. Then, his phone buzzed on the table.
He almost ignored it—probably just a random update or one of those gallery group chats he never answered. But something about the timing made him glance over. He reached lazily for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
“We should meet up”
He blinked and sat up. Then stared at the message again like it might vanish if he looked away.
His heart was suddenly hammering. The fog of sleep evaporated instantly. She’d messaged him. After all those days of silence. After the flowers. After the gift for James. He had told himself he’d keep trying—but he hadn’t expected this. Not so soon. Not at all.
His fingers flew.
Sure. Right now?

He paused only to breathe, then hit send.
Then he stood up, too restless to sit back down. If she said yes, where would they even go? It had to be somewhere low-key. Comfortable. Familiar, but not too loaded. He didn’t want her to feel cornered. He just wanted to see her.
The reply came. You pick.
That was all he needed.
He quickly typed the name of a small bar he knew near her neighborhood. It was quiet, not flashy, a place where no one asked too many questions and you could actually hear someone talk. He liked that about it. He’d gone there once when he needed to think, and it had stuck with him. Now it felt right.
There’s a bar called Miller’s just off Sunset, near that bookstore with the crooked windows. Ten minutes from you.
Okay. See you there.
Liam took one quick look at himself in the mirror—ran a hand through his hair, debated changing his shirt, then decided against it. This wasn’t about dressing up or pretending. This was about showing up. Being real. By the time he got there, the streets were cloaked in night, the soft glow of the streetlights flickering against the closed storefronts. It was the kind of quiet that made every step, every breath, feel a little louder
He pushed open the door to Miller’s, his eyes scanning the place. There she was—already seated at a corner, her arms loosely crossed on the table, her expression unreadable, yet she was still undeniably beautiful.
He swallowed hard and walked over.
“Hey,” he said, soft but certain.
Sam looked up, meeting his eyes.
“Hey.”
He slid into the seat across from her. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the bar carried around them—low conversation, the clink of glasses, a song from the jukebox playing something bluesy and slow.
Liam finally spoke. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
She nodded. “I figured it was time we talked
He searched her face, looking for clues. She didn’t look angry. Just cautious. A little tired maybe. Like she’d spent days wrestling with herself.
“I wasn’t sure if the flowers were too much,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
Sam gave a small smile. “They weren’t too much. Just unexpected.”
He relaxed a fraction. “And the quiver—for James. I hope that wasn’t crossing a line either.”
“No,” she said slowly. “It was… thoughtful. He loved it. I just—I wasn’t expecting that, either.”
He nodded. “I didn’t want to make some grand gesture that would freak you out. I just wanted to show I meant what I said. That I care.”
She looked down at her glass, then back at him. “You said you were sorry.”
“I am.”
“And you said you want to fix things.”
“I do.”
She tilted her head. “But what does that mean, Liam? Fixing things? You’re an artist. You’re used to getting lost in your world. That’s fine—I admire that. But I don’t want to be someone you forget about when things get messy.”
“You won’t be,” he said without hesitation. “I didn’t forget about you, Sam. Not for a second. I messed up. I let something stupid get between us. But I didn’t stop thinking about you.”
She held his gaze, her eyes soft but serious.
Then, her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, eyes flicking up at him as she leaned back in the booth. “So,” she said, voice calm but edged with tension, “is she going to show up again?”
Liam didn’t need to ask who. “Anisha?”
Sam gave a half-shrug, her gaze sharp. “Yeah. Is she out of the picture, or should I be worried she’ll crash my life?”
Liam let out a breath, sitting up straighter. “No. She’s gone. I made that clear after the gallery. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He looked down at his hands. “Because I was a coward. I thought ignoring her would be easier than confronting her. But that night... when she walked up to us and said what she said—I realized how badly I messed up. I should’ve said something. I just...froze.”
Sam didn’t speak, letting him continue.
“I ended things with her after I met you, but she kept texting, calling, leaving voicemails. I didn’t respond to any of them.” He paused. “I thought if I didn’t feed it, it would die out.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Did you end things with her because of me?”
Liam shook his head immediately. “No. I ended things because of me.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes fixed on hers. “Meeting you… it didn’t make me cheat or drift or lie. It just made me see how far I’d already gone from who I really was.”
Sam stayed quiet, letting the weight of that settle.
“I was with Anisha for a long time,” he continued. “And for a while, I convinced myself that she saw me. That she got me. But somewhere along the way, she stopped seeing me and just started seeing this version of me she wanted. The curated version. Polished. Controlled. Successful in the ways that made sense to her.”
He glanced away for a second, searching for the right words.
“She didn’t care about my work unless it sold. Didn’t understand it unless it matched her idea of success. When I started pulling away, it wasn’t a dramatic breakup—it was a quiet one. I just… stopped fitting into her world, and she didn’t notice until it was too late.”
Sam’s shoulders softened, the tension in her jaw relaxing slightly.
“Then I met you,” he added. “And you asked me about the brush I use to paint, or what color I can never get right. You saw the parts of me that I kept buried with Anisha. You didn’t ask for a version. You just—looked.”
Her throat tightened. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I know. And I didn’t because I was afraid I’d lose whatever chance I had with you.” He looked at her, a quiet plea in his voice. “But I’m telling you now. No more hiding. No more pretending.”
Sam studied him, her eyes searching his face for any cracks. Any lies. But all she saw was honesty—raw, open, maybe even a little afraid.
She let out a breath. “Okay. I believe you.”
Liam blinked, his relief so visible it made her smile a little.
“But don’t screw it up again,” she said, pointing a finger at him playfully, even though her voice still carried weight.
“Noted,” he said, placing a hand on his heart. “Swear on the last tube of my favorite paint.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You artists are so dramatic.”
“And you like that,” he said with a grin.
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it.
For the first time in a long while, Liam felt like the weight on his heart had finally lifted.
And that was enough.