Page 67 of The Spark

Taraj’s words sat heavy on my chest, unraveling the things I had convinced myself were true and for the first time since Amir and I had fallen apart, I felt something shift inside me.

I looked back at him. Really looked.

And this time, when our eyes met across the room…

I didn’t look away. In fact, I moved closer to him as if pulled by some invisible tether.

29

Ialmost didn’t go.

Even with the invite in my hand, even with Taraj texting me twice to make sure I’d be there, I stood in my closet staring at my clothes like the right outfit might armor me from whatever the night was about to bring.

“Show up,” Raj had said. “She deserves that much. And so do you.”

He was right. But I didn’t go for me.

I went because Amaya was having a moment. The kind you only get once if you’re lucky. And no matter what pain lived between us now, I wasn’t about to miss her shine.

By the time I walked into the August Wilson Center, the place was alive. Music floated through the air—low jazz with a heartbeat thump under it. Like it had been curated just for her. People filled the space in curated chaos. Art lovers. Tastemakers. Photographers. The press. Even a few familiar faces from the studio scene pretending not to be impressed.

But all I saw was her.

Amaya stood near the far end of the gallery, surrounded by light and reverence. Her skin glowed under the soft gold wash of the spotlights. Her dress hugged her in a way that made my heart stutter, but it wasn’t just about how she looked. It was about how she moved. How people leaned in when she spoke. How her laugh carried above the low hum of the room and made everything else feel like background noise.

I watched her work the space like she’d done it a thousand times—but I knew better. I knew the nerves she hid. The way she double-checked everything. How hard she’d fought to get here. And God, I was proud.

But watching her from across the room, I also ached.

I saw her smile at someone—genuine, warm—and I felt it. That longing to be the one making her laugh again. To be the man she leaned into when she needed stillness. To be the reason her eyes softened the way they used to.

And then Taraj slid into her orbit.

My jaw tightened.

I wasn’t surprised to see him. It was his album cover on display beside her mosaic—the piece that had cracked her wide open and made the whole world see what I’d known for years. She was a fucking genius.

But seeing Raj talking to her, close, familiar and knowing he’d been around while I was too wrapped up in my own shit? Yeah, it burned. Hot and slow.

I didn’t move. Didn’t step forward. Just watched. Felt every breath in my chest like it cost me something.

Until she turned. Looked at me. Not past me. Not through me.

At me.

And for a beat, I couldn’t breathe.

Then—her fingers curled slightly, like she was reaching for something.

And that something was me.

She crossed the room without a word. No hesitation. No nerves. Just a woman on a mission.

When her hand reached for mine, I damn near lost it.

Her touch was soft, but it hit like a jolt. Like a circuit sparking back to life. I followed her, my hand locked in hers, my body moving on instinct. I barely noticed Raj lift his glass in our direction with that smug little smirk like he already knew how this would play out.

Maybe he did.

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