The hotel ballroom smelled faintly of books, perfume, and ambition.
Rows of chairs lined the wide space, all facing a long table draped in ivory cloth. Gold name cards sat in front of each speaker, glinting softly beneath the warm light.
Amara stood by the entrance for a long second, holding her conference badge in one hand, and her tote bag in the other. She wasn't late.
Her heart was calm, but her fingers weren't. She haven't been in public spaces for three years now.
She took a deep breath, smoothing the silk of her blouse, before walking in and choosing a seat near the side. The chatter around her was a hum. Writers greeting writers, editors waving at old friends, and cameras flashing as someone recorded content for social media.
She smiled faintly.
This world had once terrified her. But now, she moved through it quietly, like a ghost who had learned to exist among the living again.
The moderator's voice came through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year's International Writers' Conference. Our next panel features authors who've turned pain into poetry."
The crowd clapped.
Amara folded her hands in her lap, stilling her fidgeting fingers. Her name wasn't on the panel. Still, this topic always left her raw. She's required to speak in a week time.
When the panelists walked onto the stage, she looked up out of courtesy, and froze.
Travis.
He looked different in this daylight, and yet not at all.
His sandy coloured hair was still slightly tousled, his jaw still sharp, his calm still unnerving. The same man whose coffee she had spilled hours ago now stood in front of a microphone, adjusting it with the ease of someone who belonged there.
A new placard gleamed before him.
TRAVIS ALDEN, Author of The Quiet Seasons.
Amara blinked. Author?
She had heard of that book. Everyone had. It had gone viral for its raw honesty, and for the way it carried grief in sentences that felt too human to be fiction.
He took his seat at the end of the table. His blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled slightly, with his confidence worn without arrogance. When he looked up, scanning the crowd, his gaze found her like it had been waiting to.
Amara's stomach tightened.
She looked down immediately, flipping open her notebook though she hadn't planned to take notes on. Her fingers gripped the pen tightly enough to make her knuckles pale.
"Writing about loss," the moderator began, "can often feel like reopening an old wound. Travis, you once said in an interview that you write because forgetting would hurt more than remembering. Can you talk about that?"
Travis smiled, softly. He gave the same kind of smile he'd given her when she spilled his coffee. It wasn't showy. It was quiet and thoughtful.
"Sure," he said, his voice moving easily through the hall. "I think we spend most of our lives trying to avoid pain. But as writers, we don't get that luxury. We have to turn around and face it, even invite it in. I learned that sometimes, the only way to heal is to name what broke you."
His voice was calm, and even, but it slid right under her skin.
Amara felt her throat tighten.
The words were too familiar. Not his, but the ache behind them. Because that was what she had done too, hadn't she? Written her survival into pages that bled quietly.
Her eyes lifted despite herself.
Travis was looking at her again.
His gaze wasn't intense. It wasn't predatory or curious. It was something else entirely. Recognition, maybe. As if he could sense the ghosts she carried.
For one stolen heartbeat, she forgot to breathe.
She looked away again.
The other panelists spoke. They shared stories of heartbreak, recovery, and the strange intimacy of being read by strangers.
Amara heard every word but none of them stuck. Every time Travis's voice returned to the mic, the air shifted, like the sound itself knew where to find her.
By the end of the session, she felt like she'd been sitting in sunlight too long. Warm, but dizzy.
When the applause came, she joined it softly, careful not to meet his gaze again. The moderator announced a short break before the book signing began. People rose from their seats, chatting animatedly, and forming lines toward the table.
Amara packed her notebook slowly, waiting for the crowd to thin. She had no reason to go up there. And yet, a small part of her wanted to thank him for his words.
She waited until most of the attendees had gone to the refreshments table before standing.
She approached the signing line, hesitating by the end of it. She hadn't bought his book, but she could still say hello. She could still…..
"Amara."
Her name.
Soft, and steady.
She froze.
Travis was looking directly at her now, with a small smile playing on his lips. "You made it," he said, as if this was something they'd agreed on.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't know you'd be here."
He leaned slightly forward, with his elbows on the table. "Neither did I. Guess the universe wanted its coffee back."
Amara's lips twitched. "You're not still counting that, are you?"
"I'm a writer," he said, eyes warm. "We never forget details."
She almost smiled. Then she noticed a camera flash nearby and took a small step back. Crowds now made her uneasy.
Travis noticed.
He spoke lower now, just for her. "You okay?"
She nodded quickly. "Just tired."
He nodded, as if he understood more than she wanted him to. "Well, tired suits you. You look… peaceful."
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity of it.
Her heart stumbled once, then steadied.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"You're staying for the gala dinner tonight?" he asked casually, signing another attendee's book without breaking their eye contact.
She hesitated. "I'm not sure."
"You should," he said. "The view from the terrace is the only reason half the writers stay through the speeches."
Amara tilted her head slightly. "And the other half?"
He smiled. "Stay for the company."
She looked down, pretending to adjust her bracelet. It was ridiculous. She barely knew him. And yet, her pulse refused to behave.
Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was the reminder of a time she used to believe in connection before it broke her.
Because even now, through the soft hum of voices, she could hear the echo of another man's voice. Elias's voice — gentle once, before it turned sharp with betrayal.
Travis's patience, his tone, and his subtle humor, it all reminded her of the version of Elias she once trusted. The version that smiled before everything went wrong.
She hated that her mind drew parallels.
Yet her heart doesn't obey logic. It only recognizes patterns.
Amara smiled softly and slipped outside for air. The conference terrace opened onto the city with glass railings overlooking buildings that shimmered under the late afternoon sun.
She leaned against the rail, watching taxis crawl along the road far below.
A familiar warmth brushed her shoulder. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Do you always disappear after panels?" Travis's voice came, light and curious.
"I just needed some quiet," she replied without looking at him.
He stood beside her, leaving a polite distance between them. "Fair enough. The crowd can get loud."
They stood in silence for a moment. The breeze was soft. Somewhere behind them, a waiter clinked glasses onto a tray.
Then Travis said, almost absently, "You remind me of something I once wrote."
Her brow lifted slightly. "Should I be flattered or worried?"
He chuckled. "Flattered. It was about people who carry storms in silence. They turn fragile, a direct opposite of their previous self."
Her chest ached a little at that. She didn't know why.
"Maybe I should read that one," she said quietly.
"Maybe you already have," he replied.
Amara turned to him and met his gaze. The sun caught in his eyes, turning them into a deep, unreadable gold.
He didn't look away.
For a fleeting, impossible second, she felt like she was standing on the edge of something. Something fragile and new, that could either heal her or undo her all over again.
...….
That evening, when she returned to her hotel room, Amara lay on the bed and scrolled absently through her phone again. Celeste had sent her a photo of the twins. Celsa was asleep on Dominic's chest, and Selene was drawing beside them.
Her heart softened.
Then her screen lit up with a notification.
New email: Conference Networking Exchange – Contact Request.
She opened it.
From: Travis Alden
Message: "Since the universe insists."
Beneath it, was his number.
Amara stared at it for a long moment, the room hushed around her.
Then she locked her phone, rolled onto her back, and whispered to no one in particular. "I'm not doing this again."
But even as she said it, she couldn't help the small, involuntary smile that tugged at her lips.