Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 138: We Were Never Ours

Billy stood in front of the mirror, the sketchbook now closed and resting gently on the desk. He didn’t reach for it again. Not yet.

His eyes rose to the reflection — pale morning light casting soft lines on his cheekbones.

His hair still a little messy from sleep. A faint crease on his shirt from sitting too long at the table.

He didn’t look like a man heading toward a future. But maybe that was the point.

He opened the small drawer near his bedside table and pulled out a watch. Worn leather strap. A scratch on the edge of the glass. Familiar — but not remembered.

He fastened it anyway.

Then he went to the closet, pulled out a button-down — something clean, simple, not formal. No cologne. No sharp grooming. Just a tidy version of himself. Presentable but real.

As he adjusted the cuffs, he glanced at the mirror again.

There was a stillness in his eyes. Not emptiness. Not fear. Just stillness. As if he was listening to something quiet inside him.

He pressed one hand to the spot just over his heart — where the drawing would soon live — and inhaled slowly.

"I’m not meeting her to go back. I’m meeting her to see what I left behind."

His fingers curled slightly at the hem of his shirt.

Then came the sound of distant voices downstairs.

Camila.

And...

A doorbell.

The doorbell echoed through the quiet house, a crisp chime that didn’t belong to any particular emotion — not joy, not dread. Just... anticipation.

Camila stood by the front window, already peeking through the sheer curtain.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not in judgment — more in curiosity. She turned back toward their mother, who had just stepped out of her office room and adjusted the hem of her blouse.

"It’s her," Camila said quietly.

Mrs. Sandoval nodded once, calm but unreadable.

"Let her in."

Camila opened the door.

There she was.

Eleanor.

Tall, elegant in a soft cream blouse and high-waisted pants, her dark curls swept into a loose bun.

She wore little makeup — just enough to frame her warm brown eyes. Her expression was polite. Poised. But under it... tension, confusion. Maybe even sadness.

"Camila," she greeted softly. "Hi."

Camila smiled — careful, not cold.

"Hi, Eleanor. It’s been a while."

They shared a polite hug. A distant one.

Mrs. Sandoval stepped forward next.

"Welcome, dear," she said. "Come in."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sandoval. It’s... it’s really good to see you."

Eleanor stepped inside, her eyes scanning the home like she was both remembering and reevaluating everything at once.

Camila closed the door behind her.

"You look well," Eleanor added. "Both of you."

"And you," Mrs. Sandoval replied with grace.

There was a short silence, not quite awkward — just full. Of things left unsaid. Of ghosts in the corners.

Camila gestured toward the parlor.

"You can wait here. He’s getting ready."

Eleanor perched lightly on the edge of the couch, her fingers laced over her lap, the purse nestled close like a forgotten afterthought.

Her eyes glanced once toward the stairs.

"I wasn’t sure if he’d agree to see me," she said after a moment.

"He did," Mrs. Sandoval replied, her tone firm but kind. "That’s what matters."

Camila didn’t say anything.

She just watched.

And upstairs... footsteps moved quietly across the hallway floor.

Eleanor sat still, legs crossed at the ankle, her posture impeccable — as always.

But her fingers, laced lightly in her lap, tapped against each other in a subtle rhythm. Not nerves. Just the weight of formality.

The room was exactly as she remembered. Neat, measured, curated — like everything in the Sandoval family.

Her gaze floated toward the staircase... then away again.

They hadn’t been in love. Not then. Not ever. She and Leon had grown up near each other, went to the same events, smiled at the same dinners. Their families talked. Their fathers agreed.

It was always understood.

"He’s smart," her mother had once said. "And your personalities complement each other."

"He’s ambitious, and you won’t get in his way."

Eleanor had never argued. She liked Leon. He was clever, sometimes funny, always put-together. But he never looked at her like she was a future. Just an obligation.

And truth be told... she’d felt the same.

Now, she sat in the Sandoval home again, waiting to see the man everyone called Billy now — the one who had vanished into smoke and silence and memory loss.

She took a breath.

The soft creak of the stairs pulled her attention back.

And there he was.

Billy.

Descending slowly. Dressed in a simple button-down, sleeves rolled. No presence of performance, no practiced charm. Just calm — a kind of quiet steadiness she had never seen in him before.

Their eyes met.

No spark. No sting.

Just the strange gravity of two people meeting again, under expectations neither of them had ever asked for.

Billy reached the bottom of the stairs.

He moved with a quiet presence, one that made Eleanor stand — out of habit, not warmth.

"Eleanor," he said with a slight nod.

"Hi," she replied, offering a polite smile. "It’s... good to see you again."

He studied her for a beat — familiar, but distant. She looked like someone from a life he was once handed, not someone he chose.

"You look well," he said simply.

"So do you. Different... but good."

Camila stepped in from the side with a small tray — two glasses of juice, a plate of light snacks. She placed them on the coffee table between them.

"Mom set up a place outside," she said softly, her eyes flicking to Billy. "If you two want some space."

Billy gave a gentle nod. Eleanor just followed his lead.

Camila glanced once more at her brother, then disappeared without another word.

A round table rested beneath the shade of the patio awning. Two cushioned chairs faced each other. A small vase of fresh flowers in the middle.

Eleanor sat first. Billy followed, setting his glass down with a faint clink.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Birdsong in the distance. The soft sound of leaves stirring in the breeze.

Finally, Eleanor exhaled and looked at him — truly looked.

"I didn’t come to pressure you," she said gently. "I know how things were... before. I know this whole engagement wasn’t your idea. It wasn’t mine either."

Billy’s gaze didn’t shift.

"I know.....but why did you agree to it?"

Eleanor gave a faint, tired smile.

"Because that’s what people like us do. We agree. We cooperate. We perform."

He nodded, slow. There was no bitterness in his voice — only quiet understanding.

"I don’t remember much about that part of my life. But... I think even then, I didn’t know how to say no."

"Me either," she whispered.

A pause. Then, softly—

"You seem... freer now."

Billy’s eyes flickered toward the horizon.

"I am."

She nodded.

"I don’t want this marriage," she said, finally releasing the weight in her chest. "Not out of rebellion. Just... I want something real. For both of us."

Billy’s gaze returned to her.

"Thank you. For saying that."

Eleanor took a sip from her glass.

"You’re different now. But in a good way. Softer, maybe. Or just... more real."

"I’ve had to unlearn everything they taught me," he said, his voice steady. "And I’m not done."

She smiled.

"Well, I hope you find what’s yours, Leon."

He gave a soft, grateful nod.

"You too."

The sunlight shifted between them. No animosity. No regret.

Just two people quietly agreeing to walk separate paths— finally, on their own terms.

The wind stirred again — gentle and warm. It danced through the hedges, lifted the edge of the tablecloth, then passed.

Eleanor leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the rim of her glass as she rolled it between her fingers.

"I’ll have to talk to my family," she said softly. "They won’t be thrilled."

Billy didn’t rush to answer.

"I understand," he said. "But I don’t think you owe anyone an apology for choosing peace."

She gave him a faint smile, tired but honest.

"I was afraid it’d look like I was running away from something."

"Maybe we both are," he said. "But maybe that’s okay too... if we’re running toward something better."

Eleanor looked at him for a moment, really looked — and there was something like respect in her eyes.

"I never hated you," she murmured. "I just... never felt like I really knew you. Not the way people think fiancées are supposed to."

Billy nodded slowly.

"That makes two of us."

A pause settled between them again, but this time it felt lighter. Less restrained.

Eleanor took a small piece of fruit from the plate, placed it neatly on her napkin.

"Do you remember anything at all?" she asked, voice gentle, no pressure behind it.

Billy looked off for a moment — not to the sky, but somewhere far, far inside himself.

"Bits. Feelings. A voice. A smile I can’t name. But not from this life."

His voice softened.

"I’m not trying to erase the past... but I don’t want it to hold me either."

Eleanor looked down, nodding. Something shimmered briefly in her eyes — not sadness. Not loss. Just quiet release.

"I think we both deserve something more honest."

"We do."

She reached across the table, not to grab his hand — just to place hers palm-down near his. Close, but not touching.

"You’re going to be okay, Billy."

"You too, Eleanor."

The door creaked behind them as Camila quietly stepped outside. She lingered in the threshold, not interrupting — just waiting, giving them their space.

Eleanor noticed and stood.

"That’s my cue," she said softly. "I’ll let you breathe again."

Billy gave a small, real smile.

"You didn’t take the air with you."

She returned the kind of smile people give when they know they won’t see each other again—and it’s finally okay.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too."

Eleanor walked past Camila with a graceful nod, disappearing back into the house — and from this version of his life.

Billy stayed seated a little longer, watching the wind ripple across the surface of the juice in his glass.

He felt lighter.

Not healed.

But freer.

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