Three years later

It Was Gently Raining

It was gently raining over the city when Julia walked into the hotel lobby.

Her coat was soaked at the shoulders, her bag overflowing with paperwork, and she had just hung up on a call with Samuel, yet another mundane conversation about who would walk the dog this weekend.

She had come alone. A mandatory three-day training in Montreal, organized by her employer. Nothing special. She expected PowerPoint presentations, overly hot coffee, and awkward silences around buffet tables.

And yet, he was there.

Connor was leaning against the wall near the front desk, arms crossed, focused on his phone. A quiet presence but one Julia noticed instantly. He wasn’t looking at anyone, wasn’t smiling, wasn’t speaking. But he radiated something calm… and real.

They were introduced that same evening at the group’s first dinner.

He extended his hand with a polite smile:

— Connor Ryan, digital marketing.

— Julia Pratt, graphic design and creative.

They talked about the menu, the trip, their jobs. Nothing original. But the moment he made a sarcastic remark about the trainer, she burst out laughing, a real laugh. The kind that surprises her, the one she can’t control.

And that’s when everything shifted.

Over the next two days, they kept running into each other. At first by chance, then less and less so. Extended coffee breaks, conversations that wandered somewhere deeper. Shared silences, comfortable ones. Glances exchanged.

She quickly realized that Connor wasn’t the type to flirt just for fun.

He didn’t use canned lines.

He asked real questions. He listened. And sometimes, it felt like he could see straight through her.

But he never stepped over the line.

One evening, they walked together to their floor, each stopping in front of their doors.

— Do you think we might’ve met in another life? she whispered.

Connor held her gaze. For a long time.

Then he answered:

— I think we met in the wrong one.

And he walked into his room.

That night, Julia didn’t sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, arms folded beneath her head, heart stirred by something strange. It wasn’t desire, not really. It was something else. Something quieter, deeper. Like she had just found someone she hadn’t known she’d lost.

The next day, she avoided Connor.

Not out of resentment, out of caution.

She answered Samuel’s messages with mechanical emojis, smiled at the right people, jotted down useless notes. But every time someone entered the room, her body tensed.

And of course, he eventually caught up with her.

He was waiting in front of the elevator, hands in his pockets.

— Am I scaring you, or are we playing hide-and-seek? he asked with a half-smile.

She forced a laugh but avoided his eyes.

— I just… need to stay focused.

— Me too, he replied softly. But it’s hard when you’re not there.

She finally looked up at him.

And for a moment, everything stopped. The noise in the lobby. The people walking by. The overhead lights. There was only the two of them.

And the invisible truth between them.

They weren’t supposed to meet.

And yet.

— What do we do now? she murmured.

Connor took a deep breath.

— Nothing. Because we’re not free. And because if I kiss you now, I’ll never be able to forget you.

Her throat tightened.

And as if he knew what she was about to say, he added, even softer:

— And I know you’re not ready to carry that.

He brushed her arm, just for a moment, like a discreet goodbye.

Then he stepped back and walked away without looking back.

Julia stood there, frozen in front of the elevator.

She knew he was right.

But she also knew that someday, this moment would haunt her.

And it would.

Three years later.

The last night came quicker than she expected.

The whole group had gathered at the hotel bar to “celebrate the end of the training.”

Julia was sipping a glass of red wine, barely listening to the conversations.

Connor was on the other side of the room, surrounded by two colleagues, but his eyes were searching for her, discreetly, constantly.

At one point, their eyes met.

No smile. No words.

Just a silent exchange that said everything: Come.

She stepped out onto the terrace. The air was cool.

Rain droplets still clung to the metal railings. She leaned against them, breathing deeply.

He joined her seconds later.

No games this time. No masks.

— We still have a few hours, he murmured.

She turned her head slightly.

— And after that?

He shrugged.

— We go back to our lives. Pretend it meant nothing.

She let out a soft, nervous laugh.

— Do you really think that’s possible?

He shook his head.

— No. But we’re not allowed more.

They stood silently. Close, too close.

Julia could feel the warmth of his arm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She wanted to lean in. Rest her head against him. But that gesture would have changed everything they had tried to preserve.

So she closed her eyes and whispered:

— Maybe we met just to remind ourselves that something real still exists.

Connor nodded slowly.

— Maybe we met so we could find each other again, later.

She opened her eyes.

He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the horizon, the rain softly starting again.

Then he pulled a small notebook from his pocket. A worn black notebook held shut with a rubber band.

He handed it to her.

— Page 27.

She opened it, curious. And read a sentence, written in black ink, like a thought scribbled between meetings:

“If not this life, then I hope we’ll meet in another where I can love you freely.”

Julia felt her eyes fill with tears.

She gently closed the notebook and handed it back to him.

— Do you believe in second chances? she asked.

Connor smiled. For the first time, sadly.

— I believe in moments you never forget.

It was the last thing he said before walking away.

And even though she returned to her room, called Samuel, took the train home the next day…

That night, a part of her stayed on that terrace. With him.

With everything they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel.

The next morning, the hotel was quiet.

Suitcases rolled over the tile. Goodbyes were rushed and dull.

Julia saw Connor one last time, from afar, at the reception desk.

He looked up at her. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move toward her.

But he looked at her like it was the last time.

Because maybe it was.

She got into the cab, heart heavy, stomach hollow, like she’d left something essential behind in that hotel room. But it wasn’t an object.

It was a possibility.

A parallel life.

A love left suspended.

She went home. Fell back into routine. Returned to Samuel.

But nothing felt the same.

Everything looked the same, sounded the same…

But something inside her had shifted.

For three years, she never spoke his name.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, she’d wake to the sound of a familiar voice in her dreams.

A look. A silence. A sentence scribbled on page 27.

And she’d fall back asleep, heart racing.

Without knowing it, she was waiting.

Without saying it, she was hoping.

And one evening,

three years later,

he would be there.