NEW YORK, PRESENT DAY

4 MONTHS LATER — MAY

Willow's flight from Los Angeles to New York City had been delayed twice before it was all together canceled. A large hurricane had hit the edge of Florida, losing momentum as it traveled up the East Coast but still managed to engulf the city in a series of thunderstorms. All flights in and out of JFK airport had been grounded, leaving thousands stranded and even more in disarray. It was the first hurricane of the year, showcasing itself way too early and therefore everyone unprepared.

It took almost a week for Willow to re-schedule her travel arrangements. Every direct flight from California to New York had been filled, which meant she had to take a flight from LAX to Atlanta, Georgia, finding herself with a six-hour layover before she took another from Atlanta to JFK. Of course, Willow flew in first-class — the luxury offering her enough room to get some sleep and a decent meal, but the whole debacle had put her massively behind regarding the shooting schedule for Saudade.

By the time she arrived at her hotel, it was past midnight. Willow stepped out of the black town car and onto the wet pavement, the city's neon glow reflecting off the slick streets. The buzz of New York seemed to hum through her, even as her tired legs carried her toward the door of the Soho Grand Hotel. She hadn't been here in years, and yet the air, thick with the promise of the city, felt the same as it always had — vibrant, restless, impossibly alive.

The lobby was hushed at this hour, the rich wood panels and modern furniture bathed in the soft light of the chandeliers. Check-in was easy — thank God. Her notoriety enabled a quick re-adjustment of her stay. The hotel was happy to accommodate anything she needed.

A bellboy offered to take her bag, but she declined, instead clutching it tightly as she moved toward the elevator. She felt a strange heaviness in her chest, a knot that tightened with each floor. This city, these streets, had seen the best of her, the worst of her — but it was the memory of him that lingered.

Cillian. The first man she'd truly loved, the first man who'd ever made her feel like she wasn't just a silly, helpless girl, but a woman. A woman in love, with all the foolishness and passion that came with it.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and she stepped out into the corridor, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood floors. The suite was at the end of the hall, tucked away in a corner as if to keep her safe, isolated. When the door clicked open, a wave of cool air met her, and she let herself in, pausing for a moment to take in the room.

It was perfect — too perfect, almost. The muted colors, the clean lines of the furniture, the expansive windows with a view of the city's skyline stretched out in front of her, bathed in the shimmering glow of streetlights. The lights were dimmed low, as if it knew she had no energy left to be dazzled. It was a place designed for a woman like her, someone who could stand alone, who had long ago learned how to navigate loneliness in luxury.

She set her bag down on the plush velvet chaise lounge, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for just a moment longer than necessary. She didn't want to sit. Not yet.

Her gaze drifted to the window, the city sprawling out in front of her, its endless lights twinkling like stars in the night sky. But it was all so empty now. She didn't know what she was doing anymore, didn't know why she was here.

Willow's first solo project — that's why she was here. Her first project without Richard.

The words echoed in her mind, a mantra that held no comfort. She wasn't sure what scared her more — the idea of the film failing, or the idea of it succeeding. If it succeeded, she would have to carry that success alone. No more sharing credit with Richard, no more blending her ideas into a collective vision. It would be hers, entirely. Isn't that what she wanted? Wasn't that one of the many reasons she left him? So why did the weight of that terrify her?

The film was supposed to be everything. A story of love and loss, of the messy, complicated reality that came after two people had broken apart after finding themselves. That's what she doing now, again, but much older, slightly more wiser, and maybe a little less reckless.

She hadn't seen Cillian in almost four months, not since their last conversation on the curb of that restaurant she had invited him to. They had been in contact, of course, but strictly through emails that were more often than not drafted and answered by their agents. But even then, he had been the only person to occupy her thoughts most days.

She went back and forth, comparing Richard to Cillian, how the situations were so vastly different yet so similar in ways she had yet to figure out.

And in the next twenty-four hours, Willow would see Cillian again.

Her pulse quickened at the thought, even though the memory of their romance — fleeting and broken — still stung. The way he'd looked at her at that dinner, with the weight of everything unspoken between them, the unfinished business that had haunted both of them. It was all still there, simmering beneath the surface of the film.

She walked toward the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to its entirety, so she could bask in the city sprawling before her. The hum of distant traffic, the occasional siren, the remnants of a lifetime she had forced out of her mind for so long.

Willow inhaled deeply, and for a moment, it felt like she was sinking into the past. Into the days when she and Cillian had been together. The hours they spent wandering these streets, on their rare days off from being in Long Island, totally lost in the anonymity of the city. Any chance they got, they boarded the train down here, pretending to be big shot celebrities with only two dollars in their pockets.

Glancing at the terraces below her, her mind drifted to nights spent on the roof of that dilapidating loft, with only the soft glow of streetlights or the full moon illuminating their conversations.

The intimacy of it. The quiet understanding of being understood.

Richard had never given her that.

Willow reached up, her fingers brushing her neck, where the faint echo of his touch still lingered. The thought of him on set, their history woven into the lines of the script, felt almost impossible. How could they work together? How could she stand next to him and not drown in the weight of their shared past? What the fuck had she been thinking?

A knock on the door broke her reverie. She froze, the tension in her chest tightening.

It was him.

But it wasn't.

It was the hotel staff, delivering a welcome tray of assorted cheeses, crackers and fruits. She nodded, too exhausted to speak, and took the tray from the waiter's hands with a thank you that sounded hollower than she'd intended. The door clicked shut behind him, and she stood there for a long moment, staring at the tray — the meal she hadn't asked for and did not want.

Despite the long day, her mind was too wired for any real sleep. Willow needed to unwind, and to do so meant traveling back downstairs to the hotel's bar. Before she could linger too much longer, she set the tray of snacks onto the dresser, grabbed her purse and left the room.

Willow stepped into the club room at the Soho Grand, the weight of the night pressing against her like a heavy coat. It was just now reaching one in the morning, the soft hum of muted conversations and clinking glasses filling the dimly lit space. Cocktail waitresses moved gracefully around tables, dropping drinks and cleaning up old glasses without being noticed. The dim lighting cast warm, amber glows on sleek leather sofas and the polished mahogany bar. A jazz band, barely audible over the chatter, played softly in the corner, setting a languid, almost melancholic tone.

She had come for a drink, but she wasn't sure what she was searching for. Her suitcase upstairs, still unpacked, sat like a silent reminder of the life she was trying to leave behind in LA. The thought only amplified her sense of being untethered, adrift.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she walked toward the bar. The bartender, a tall man in a crisp black vest, nodded as she slid onto a stool, the seat creaking under her weight. Her mind still couldn't shake the pressure of all the years spent in the shadow of someone else's ambitions, someone else's vision — her ex-husband's.

"Just a gin and tonic," she said, her voice betraying more fatigue than she intended. The bartender didn't respond, just turned to prepare her drink with smooth, practiced motions. Willow's gaze swept over the room, catching glimpses of people in hushed conversation, some laughing, some gazing into their drinks with the same distant look she was probably wearing.

She thought about how different things had been just a year ago, when everything had seemed so put together. On the outside, the premieres, the parties, the shared vision, the way Richard had talked about their future in interviews, about how it would always be intertwined — everything seemed perfect. On the inside, they had been crumbling, hurtling into a black hole of bitterness, unabashed resentment that led to hurt and suffering.

But here she was now, solo, on the precipice of something new, something that felt both liberating and terrifying.

She grabbed the drink the bartender slid her way, the cold glass offering a brief sensation of clarity. She took a sip, savoring the way the gin bit her tongue. Her fingers traced the rim of the glass absently as she surveyed the room again. There was a couple, laughing quietly at a corner table. There was a man who's face she could not see, sitting alone in a plush armchair with his phone held loosely in his hand. He tussled his dark, salt-and pepper hair, the locks falling in thick waves on the back of his neck. Everyone seemed to be caught in their own bubble, in their own world. She wondered if they felt as out of place as she did.

A part of her thought she should have called someone — her agent, maybe, or even the therapist she hadn't seen in over six months. But what would she say?

I'm in New York and I think I miss my ex-husband but I'm also reminiscing over the man who took my virginity?

It clearly wasn't that simple. She didn't want to admit that the thing she was running from still had a hold on her. She had come here to make something hers, her first real film without Richard's influence. But the weight of their past still followed her like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the back of her mind, meddling with the other part of her that still gripped onto another person.

She took another sip, staring absently at the low, flickering candle atop the bar to her right. The golden light danced across her face, casting fleeting shadows under her eyes. She could feel a lump rising in her throat, the sting of loneliness that she couldn't seem to shake off no matter how many city lights she tried to lose herself in.

A group of younger women, laughing too loudly, passed by her, and one of them almost bumped into her. She glanced up, forcing a smile.

"Sorry," the woman said, clearly oblivious to the isolation hanging in the air between them.

"No, it's fine," Willow said, a softness in her voice she didn't recognize. She watched them take their seats by the window, a world away from her. They were at ease, carefree, as though this was where they belonged.

Willow looked down at her drink again, her reflection merging with the dim light. She wasn't sure if she was just tired or if she was on the edge of something larger. What would it take to shake this feeling? To let go of what was already lost and move forward, truly forward, into something of her own?

The band played on, each note a distant echo in her chest, and for a brief moment, she felt suspended in the space between two lives — one that was slipping away and one that hadn't quite arrived yet.

Willow took another sip of her gin and tonic, trying to steady the waves of nostalgia that were threatening to pull her under. The warmth of the drink spread through her, but it didn't quell the ache that seemed to be lodged somewhere deep within her chest. She didn't know what she was expecting when she came to New York — maybe a fresh start, a sense of liberation. But all she had found so far was a quiet ache that followed her everywhere, no matter how many miles she put between herself and the past.

But wasn't she just indulging in another part of herself? New York held its memories too, ones that she had pushed so far behind her that she was desperately trying to pull them back before they were lost forever.

As if she manifested it, her gaze drifted again across the club room, and that was then that she saw him.

The man with the salt-and-pepper hair, his face turned ever so slightly to observe the group of young women who had so nosily entered. His skin pale, almost translucent.

For a moment, her mind didn't quite process what her eyes were telling her.

But there he was — Cillian, with the soft light catching his sharp jawline and tousled hair. She had seen him a thousand times in her mind, a ghost, a memory that wouldn't quite fade. But here he was, real and in front of her, as if he'd walked out of the past and into the present without warning yet again.

Her heart gave a small jolt. It was an odd, familiar sensation — the kind that happens when you see something you weren't expecting but should have known was coming. Though he was older now, the lines on his face deeper, his presence still contained that magnetic pull he had always carried, was still unmistakable. He was wearing a black leather jacket that made him look effortlessly cool, even as he casually chuckled at the loud nature of the women next to him.

For a second, Willow felt herself retreat inward. She didn't want to be here, caught off guard by the sudden reappearance of someone who had once been the center of her world. Someone who had been there before everything fell apart in her life.

Her mind reeled. How could he be here? She hadn't expected this, not in the slightest. But then again, why not? He was in her new film, after all — the one that was supposed to be her own, without Richard's shadow hanging over it. She'd cast Cillian herself, convinced he was the perfect fit, but hadn't fully processed what that would mean in the four months that separated their last meeting.

For whatever reason, she still hadn't expected to be this close to him, in the same hotel, in the same room.

And yet, here she was. Cillian was still himself, effortlessly magnetic, impossibly distant. The kind of person who always made you feel like you were on the verge of something beautiful and tragic at the same time. The kind of love you always carried with you, even when you tried to bury it. And for a moment, Willow thought she might still be carrying it.

Her breath caught as she turned away quickly, pretending not to notice. She looked down at her drink, the glass in her hand now a lifeline, as if it could anchor her in the present. But she knew it was futile. The past had a way of coming back when you least expected it, didn't it?

She had loved him once — deeply, madly — before she even knew what love really was. Their relationship had been a perfect storm of young ambition and chemistry. They had spent that summer dreaming together. But that's all it was: dreams, left unfilled.

Just like everything else in her life, she had forced it to unravel. He had gone on to bigger things, the world falling at his feet, and she had married Richard years later. That was how it went, wasn't it? You let go of one love and grabbed onto another, thinking it would be easier, more practical. But Willow had never fully let go of Cillian. He had always lingered in the periphery of her life, a ghost of a past that was too raw to confront.

It felt surreal to see him now, not just as the actor she had once been in love with, but as the actor who was now hers — in her film, in her vision, just as they had talked about over two decades ago. She had written him into the script as someone else, someone new, but she knew the truth. The way he looked at her when he had first read the lines of her script, the way his eyes seemed to read her like a map, all the old feelings stirred to life again.

She dared a glance back at him. He was still there, getting up to leave, as he smoothed down his leather jacket, but his eyes — just for a second — seemed to catch hers across the room. There was no mistaking it. He knew her, and he knew that she knew.

He smiled, a small, knowing smile that was almost too casual, but there was something about it that made Willow's stomach flip. She quickly turned away again, suddenly aware of how foolish she must have looked — like some starstruck fan, a woman who had once held his heart and let herself break it somewhere along the way.

And now, here they were. She couldn't escape him. She couldn't escape her past. But that was the whole point of this, wasn't it? Saudade was her way to revisit it safely, to unpack what it was about that summer that continued to occupy a small portion of her heart.

Cillian was here, just as she had once hoped and feared he would be. And for a moment, Willow wasn't sure if it was the gin, the late hour, or the weight of everything she had left behind, but she felt that pull again. That gravitational force she'd tried to outrun for years.

She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself.

Focus, she thought, This is your film, Willow. This is your chance.

But as she stared into the amber light of her glass, the shadows felt heavier. Cillian had always been an echo in her life, one that had never truly faded. And now he was back, filling the room like a melody she couldn't quite remember how to sing.

Willow's legs moved her off the stool without a second thought, but as she turned to approach him, she found Cillian was already there.

"I thought that was you," he greeted quietly, his voice barely rising above the light chatter and music. "For a second, I thought I saw a ghost."

Willow let out a shaky laugh, "I could say the same."

His dimple flashed as he smiled, "When did you finally get in?"

"Tonight, about an hour ago," She paused before asking, "You?"

"Been here about a week," he replied, sighing as he placed his empty glass on the polished mahogany bar. "Crazy weather came through, as I'm sure you know."

She chuckled lightly, "It took me forever to reschedule my flight."

Cillian's gaze softened as he met her eyes. "Well, you're here now. You can finally get this production started."

Willow nodded, her heart pounding in her throat under his steady gaze. The way he looked at her —so soft, so certain — almost made her crumble. There was not a single ounce of doubt it. For a moment, she felt like the shy, awkward girl she used to be, the one who couldn't escape the crushing weight of insecurity.

A brief silence hung between them before she asked, "Are you heading back to your room?"

Cillian shrugged, his eyes drifting toward the door leading to the lobby. "I was going to, but..."

"Don't let me keep you," Willow said quickly, sliding back onto her stool and turning to the bartender. "It's late, after all."

"You're not keeping me," he replied, his voice sharp with a hint of something she couldn't place. "I can't sleep much anyway. Jetlag, and all that."

Willow's hand tightened around her glass, the tremor in her fingers betraying her calm exterior. She focused on the gin and tonic swirling in her cup as she asked, "Well, would you like me to buy you another drink?"

She felt the warmth of his body settle beside her as he took the stool next to hers. "Sure," he said, his tone casual but his proximity making her pulse quicken. "I wouldn't mind another."

Without looking at him, Willow gestured to the bartender, ordering them both another round. They sat in silence as the bartender worked, their gazes fixated on the liquor flowing into their glasses, a simple distraction from the tension hanging between them.

"The jazz band's pretty good," Willow said, trying to fill the silence.

Cillian scoffed softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She caught him shaking his head in the corner of her vision, and, with furrowed brows, she turned to face him.

"What? You don't think so?"

"I don't care about the band, Willow," Cillian's voice was calm, but there was something in it — something heavy — that made Willow flush with embarrassment.

Of course, he didn't want to talk about the music. He wasn't interested in small talk. But what else could she do? So much had gone unsaid between them, and it felt impossible to unload everything now, in this bar, the night before they were to work together.

"Well," she ventured, keeping her tone professional, "how do you feel about the part? Are you ready for it?"

Cillian muttered something unintelligible under his breath, taking a long sip of his whiskey. Beneath the shadows, his lashes cascaded over his eyes, soft as a veil.

Willow let out a louder sigh than she intended, and it was enough to make him glance her way.

"Can you stop acting like I'm a complete stranger?" Cillian asked, his voice rough, a frown creasing his brow.

Willow bit her lip, holding her gaze on him. She studied his face — familiar, yet different — eyes still full of yearning and something more, something tinged with melancholy.

"Isn't that what we are now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Something in Cillian's blue eyes shattered, and he quickly looked away.

Willow added quietly, "I haven't spoken to you in over twenty-five years."

He pursed his lips, "That's not exactly my fault, is it?"

The words hit her like a slap. Willow swallowed thickly, guilt flooding her chest.

"What do you want me to say?" she murmured, her voice trembling as she tried to bridge the distance between them. "What do you want to talk about?"

A long silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The music and laughter from the bar faded into nothingness. It was as if the world around them had disappeared, leaving just the two of them — sitting there, both too tangled in their own thoughts to say what they really meant.

Finally, Cillian spoke, his voice low and strained, as though he were holding back a storm.

"You should have called me."

Willow wasn't sure if he meant the silence of the past few months or the two decades before that. Either way, what she said next applied to both.

"You're right," she replied, her words raw and sincere, before taking a slow sip of her gin and tonic. "I should have."

Cillian turned his body toward her, fully facing her for the first time. His openness seemed to fill the space between them. "After our dinner in January, I started having doubts."

Her stomach twisted, the anxiety creeping up her throat. "What kind of doubts?"

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat shifting under the dim bar light. "That you didn't want me involved. I spent all spring dealing with your producer, and every time I tried to speak with you directly, she dodged me. It felt like you were avoiding me."

"I wasn't avoiding you," Willow replied, looking away. "But I wasn't exactly trying to talk to you, either."

Cillian exhaled slowly, a sign that his doubts had solidified into something harder, more concrete. She saw him lean against the bar, his eyes searching for hers, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead, her jaw tight.

"Cillian," she said softly, her eyes tracing the rim of her glass as she fidgeted with it, "can you blame me? It's been so long since we've seen each other, and you just... showed up. Out of nowhere. It's a lot to process."

"I guess I was just hoping you'd be happier to see me," he said, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of disappointment. There was no bitterness in it, nothing like Richard's reproach. His tone made her want to look at him, to understand him again.

Their eyes met, and she said, "I am happy to see you."

His gaze softened, and for a moment, she thought she saw a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, his cheeks flushing pink. An impulse stirred in her to reach out, to place a hand on his knee, to feel the warmth of him again. But she stopped herself. Those were old instincts, ones that wouldn't come back so easily.

Cillian licked his bottom lip, clearing his throat as if battling the same feelings she was. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I should have told you I was auditioning."

"I'm not scared," Willow lied, the words feeling hollow even as she spoke them. "This is what we always talked about, right? You and me, working together."

Cillian nodded slowly, his blue eyes holding hers for a long, searching moment.

"You and me," he echoed quietly. "Just like you promised."