Clara shut the door on the city behind her, taking a deep breath in the oasis of her quiet apartment. They'd chosen this one precisely because it faced an inner courtyard that was a patchwork of yards so small, none of the building residents ever used them, and thus was devoid of the incessant noise that assaulted your senses the moment you stepped onto the street out front. This was her sanctuary.

Rhythmless tap-tap-tapping from the office told her that Owen was home. She followed the sound to find him tapping away at his computer, an intense look sharpening the blue behind glasses slightly askew on his Roman nose. He wore his favorite gray sweater, the one Clara loved snuggling into on cool nights when they were together and borrowing when he was away. It always smelled like him. He'd had that silly sweater since freshman year of college, and it was still his favorite thing to wear.

He hadn't noticed she paused at the door. As she observed him from the small distance, she found the blue in his eyes to be dull, the hair to be too long, too curly, and his shoulders to be too slender.

Owen looked up from his work and a gentle smile stretched across his lips. Clara had to pull herself back and remember to smile back.

"Well, look who it is," he said, clasping his hands as he leaned back into his chair. "How was your trip?"

"Good," she said in an exhale, feeling exhausted all of the sudden. "Very good. Just what I needed."

The eyebrows that furrowed ever so slightly blended with the dark rim of his glasses, but Clara knew him well enough to catch it.

"You seem..." he paused, searching for what was off about her. The way he crossed his arms told Clara he was picking up on much more than just her travel weariness. Perhaps the inner storm she'd been carrying with her all the way from the Dalmatian coast?

"Tired. I am so tired," she said quickly. The yawn that followed was, thankfully, natural.

"Why don't I help with your luggage and draw you a warm bath?" he said, rising from his seat.

"No. Um, thank you, but I got it. You were in the middle of something, please finish it. I'm just going to take a quick shower and call it an early night," she said, half-heartedly accepting the embrace when Owen approached her.

He studied her face for a moment, still searching for what was amiss. Finding nothing, he sighed and rubbed her arms gently. "Alright. You look like you could use some rest." He kissed her forehead and returned to his desk, immersing himself as if she had never arrived.

Clara picked up her luggage and towed it to the closet, dumping everything onto the floor, kicking the door shut behind her. Their tiny walk-in closet that wouldn't fit more than three people upright was a luxury in New York, and with her bags, Clara took up the entire space in it. She felt like she wanted to curl up into a ball and fall asleep here, alone. A small window in the back shone a spotlight onto the center of the room.

She'd gone on the cruise trying to get a reprieve from the madness that overran her daily life, and in a way, she had. She thought about Owen, who was always a pillar of calm. Stable, understanding Owen. With his too-curly hair and not-blue-enough eyes. Clara rose and turned the old-fashioned key in the lock on the inside, letting the tassel dangle. It was meant to be decorative, but the lock worked fine if she needed privacy.

In the three years they'd lived here, she'd never once turned that key.

She crawled on all fours to the back of the closet, where a pile of old shoe boxes was buried under sports gear and extra sheets for the guest bedroom they will someday have. She deftly pushed aside everything until her finger looped through the hole of what had once been a bright-red box. She pulled out the old thing now brown with age and wrinkled with years of damage. Her heart began racing as she gently smoothed her palm over its surface. What had once been gold lettering of some European shoemaker was now only smudges on the surface. It would glitter if she tilted it just right, but it had long lost its luster. Much like the memories it housed.

She swallowed heavily as she lifted the lid on her happiest years. She took out some of the memorabilia jammed inside, and lifted the pile of photographs, tickets, and all kinds of clippings and reached all the way to the bottom. Her fingers found the very last piece of paper and pulled it out, not needing to see what was on it to know she had the right photo.

She held it in front of her with both hands, leaning against the back wall underneath the column of light streaming in. Clara wasn't sure what, exactly, was happening in her chest. Her heart was like a sledgehammer against her ribs, and on some level of consciousness, she felt her lips tremble as her eyes threatened to overflow. The corner of her mouth lifted as she ran her thumb over the happy faces on the photo.

It was a night she would never forget—could never forget. It was quite possible she'd never felt happier in her life than that night when her friend had snapped this photo of her and Dominic. She wore the yellow dress he said was made of sunlight. It was one of the last nights they had together that summer, and they looked so incredibly happy. Clara could hardly believe that this girl that looked so much like her, was her. Her hair in the photo was longer, wavy from the sea salt and wild like the wind, and their smiles glittered like the reflection of a clear-skied day on the surface of water. Dom had twirled her and pulled her into him, one hand on the small of her back, the other holding her waist. The way he looked at her in this photo was the way every woman dreams of being looked at. It was the look of a man hopelessly in love.

Or so she thought at the time.

If Clara stared long enough, she could hear the live band playing, could feel the warm night kissing her skin, see his giddy smile, and she could taste the wine on his lips as he kissed her like she'd never been kissed before.