Deja Vu - 11

★★★★★

The smell of disinfectant never really left the halls of Akso.

Even after five years, even after I scrubbed away my own rust and polished the edges of my sanity abroad, it still hit me like a wave when I walked in. Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.

But this time, I walked those halls with purpose.

I was back. Certified. Restored. A ghost turned whole again.

And somehow... I still felt empty.

The apartment was clean. Neat. I even placed a tiny potted lavender on the windowsill - a stupid attempt at pretending things could bloom again.

But lavender can't grow in winter.

And I was still in winter.

But still.

I have work.

I have a schedule.

I have children to help - little versions of me who needed someone stable, even if my own stability felt like cracked glass.

It was supposed to be a regular shift. Quiet. Steady. Predictable.

But Akso doesn't do predictable.

Zayne tapped me on the shoulder mid-morning, clipboard in hand and a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"There's a patient asking for you. Said that they want the one with the most experience with kids."

I blinked. "That's... flattering."

Zayne shrugged. "You're the best. You know that."

Deja vu clawed at the back of my mind. That same line. That same phrasing.

This was exactly how it started before.

Back when a certain arrogant, paint-stained man barged into my life like a wildfire.

I didn't let myself hope. Couldn't.

But my heart - this stupid traitor - started pounding anyway.

Room 143. Coincidence? I don't know.

I took a breath before knocking gently. "Hello? I'm Dr. Y/N. You requested for me?"

The door opened slowly.

Thomas went out - oh my God. If Thomas is here, then that means...

He looked the same, maybe a bit older, maybe a bit more tired - but the same no-nonsense expression as always.

"Hey." He said, eyes flicking toward the room behind him. "The best in handling children?"

Thomas offered me a small - slightly playful smile.

I chuckled a little. "The best in handing children."

Then...

He stepped into view.

Hesitant.

Messy curls falling into his eyes. His eyes look tired. His frame is lighter. His smile is torn.

Rafayel.

Time did something strange then.

Everything blurred. The room, the air, the years between us.

My knees nearly gave out.

Thomas slowly left the room, closing the door gently to give us some space.

He didn't speak right away. Neither did I.

We just stood there. Staring.

The shadows under his eyes were faint, like ghosts that refused to leave. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. He looked like he wanted to run. Or cry. Or maybe both.

I cleared my throat. "Mr. Rafayel, is it?"

He blinked. Then something close to a smile tugged at his lips. "Going professional on me, huh?"

I sat down, crossing my legs. Trying to stay calm. "Well, you did book a session."

"Guess I did." He muttered, taking the seat across from me.

Another silence.

I reached for the clipboard, mostly to keep my hands from trembling. "So... what can I help you with today?"

His eyes locked onto mine, not daring to break contact. "I don't know where to start."

"Start anywhere."

Another pause.

Then-"There's this special someone I miss dearly."

I looked at him. Really looked.

And for a split second, I wasn't his doctor. I wasn't his psychiatrist. I was me. The girl who listened to 58 voicemails in one night. The girl who kissed him on a lakeside after a countdown. The girl who broke his heart.

"Rafayel." I whispered, "Why did you ask for me again?"

He swallowed, eyes shifting toward the floor. "Because I didn't know how else to see you."

Something cracked inside me.

I wanted to scream.

To sob.

To apologize for every second of misunderstanding. Every night I left him alone in his pain.

But I couldn't.

Not yet.

So I sat back, kept my voice steady. "Let's start simple, then. Tell me what you're afraid of."

He looked up at me. His eyes glistening.

And said, "Losing you again."

I should've known this would be hard.

Sitting across from him like this - pretending I wasn't falling apart inside every time his eyes softened, every time he fidgeted with his sleeves the way he always used to - it was like someone was peeling off my skin slowly, piece by piece.

But I didn't show it. I couldn't.

Because right now, I wasn't his ex-girlfriend. I was his therapist.

Or at least, I was pretending to be.

The session had barely started, and already my heart felt like it had run a marathon.

Rafayel tapped his fingers against the armrest, his gaze focused on the floor. His voice was quiet - not cold, just careful. Like he was walking across glass.

"There's this girl," He started, and my lungs forgot how to work.

I gripped my pen tighter and nodded once. "Go on."

"I really loved her. Still do." He continued, lips twitching into something between a smile and a wince. "We were... different. But it worked. Somehow."

My throat tightened. I didn't say a word.

He kept going. "She made me feel seen. Like I was worth something. Even when I wasn't. Even when I messed everything up. I felt like she believed in me more than I ever did."

I wanted to cry.

But instead, I scribbled something meaningless on my notepad just to distract myself from the pressure building behind my eyes.

"I let her go." He whispered, almost too soft to hear. "I felt worthless. So I didn't fight for her. I didn't fight for our relationship. I didn't explain. I avoided her. And when she left... I told myself it was for the best. That I didn't deserve someone like her."

He sighed, eyes still on the floor.

"I haven't seen her in years. But now I did. And I don't know what she felt when she saw me again. Was she angry? Disappointed? Or... maybe happy. I don't know. I really don't."

I didn't respond right away.

I couldn't.

Because the girl in his story was me.And the man I loved - still love - was sitting in front of me, baring his soul like it was all just theory. Like he wasn't breaking my heart all over again with every word.

I took a slow breath, steadying my voice. "It appears that you and this girl... both had wounds. Deep ones. Wounds that didn't get the time or care to heal properly. Wounds that turned into scars."

He looked up at me then, just briefly. But enough.

"The thing about scars," I continued, "is that they stay. But they don't have to define you. Scars mean you survived. They mean you lived through something painful and still kept going."

He blinked slowly. I swore his eyes shimmered.

"Maybe," I added gently, "just maybe... if you're both willing, you can help each other heal the scars that were left behind. Together. Starting over, not from scratch - but from experience."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time.

It was... gentle.

He smiled. Just a little. "That sounds like something she'd say."

I chuckled, lowering my clipboard. "She sounds smart."

"She is." He met my eyes again."And kind. And too good at pretending she's okay when she's not."

My cheeks flushed. I looked away, pretending to write again. "She probably learned that from someone."

He let out a breathy laugh - real this time. "Touché."

And suddenly, something shifted.

The awkwardness, the weight, the invisible tension... it melted just a little.

We talked. About art. About his new commissions. About how he promoted Thomas and still refused to wear anything other than monochrome. About how the little boy he was painting smiled for the first time in weeks just yesterday.

We laughed. Even just a little. And it felt... right.

It felt normal.

I didn't even realize how wide I was smiling until my jaw started to ache.

I hadn't smiled like that in years.

And for the first time in a long time, something in me stirred. Like a light flickering on in a long-abandoned room.

Hope.

He didn't ask to hold my hand.

I didn't reach for his.

But somehow, between our words, something held us together.

Not as lovers. Not yet.

But as something new. Something careful. Something possible.

Maybe, just maybe... We weren't as broken as we thought.

The session ended with a quiet goodbye.

No lingering words. No promises.

Just a soft smile from him, and a polite nod from me.

Professional.

I told myself that was all it had to be.

But I should've known. Rafayel was never one to stay within the lines.

After I finished my rounds and clocked out for the day, I spotted him.

There, in the waiting area - sitting like a boy waiting for a miracle. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, and his eyes...

God, those eyes.

They lit up when they saw me. Like I was something worth waiting for.

"You waited?" I asked, unsure whether to sound surprised or flattered.

He stood up, stretching lazily. "You're worth the wait. Plus, remember our monday ice cream routine?"

I blinked. "That was... years ago."

"Yeah." He grinned, a little lopsided, a little familiar. "But promises are promises."

I didn't argue. I couldn't. Not when he was looking at me like that - like the world hadn't completely shattered between us.

So, we walked.

Under the quiet night sky, under stars that twinkled a little brighter than usual. The wind was soft, the city buzz distant. Rafayel talked, just like he used to. Switching between sass and sweetness like it was his second language.

"I swear, Thomas is the reason I have stress lines." He said with a dramatic sigh. "He schedules my exhibitions then forgets to tell me. I think he's trying to kill me slowly."

I laughed. "You mean the man who's saved your career more times than I can count?"

"Traitor." He accused, pouting. "Et tu, doctor?"

"Oh my God, you're so dramatic!" I chuckled.

"And yet, you still walked with me. " he teased.

"To make sure that you don't cry if they're out of your favorite flavor."

He gasped. "You still remember that time?!"

"Of course." I smiled. "How could I not? You sulked the whole night."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I know that you were thinking that I'm sooo cute." He said, smugly.

We reached the stall - the same tiny ice cream cart where it all began. The vendor even recognized us.

"I remember you two." The old man said, chuckling. "Been a long time."

"Yeah." Rafayel murmured, glancing at me. "Too long."

We got our usual orders. Nothing fancy. Just sweet, cold, and full of memories.

As we walked, ice cream in hand, Rafayel looked at the road ahead and said, "I built a studio. In Whitesand Bay."

I blinked. "Wow."

He smiled. "Big windows, lots of light. I paint every morning. Got a small gallery there too. And-" then smirked, "I grow a stupid amount of succulents now."

I laughed. "You? Plants? Since when?"

"Since the girl I loved used to talk to her plants like they were her kids." He said softly.

That shut me up for a moment.

"I'm proud of you. For being successful." I said finally. And I meant it. With all my heart.

He looked at me like that meant everything.

When we reached my apartment building, he didn't even hesitate. He entered like it was muscle memory - like those five years didn't happen.

I followed him up, watching as he moved to the balcony with ease, hands in his pockets, eyes turned toward the sky.

Deja vu.

I stood at the doorway for a second, heart thudding as I watched him lean on the railing - the same spot I stood on the night we broke apart.

But I didn't cry. I didn't tremble.

I just walked over, stood beside him, and breathed.

Because I made a promise - to myself.

I'll make new memories. No matter how small.

He didn't speak at first. Just admired the city lights below, ice cream still half-eaten in hand.

Then he whispered, "You know... this balcony used to hurt."

I turned to look at him.

"But now it just feels... quiet."

I nodded. "Maybe we're just older now."

"Maybe we just finally know what pain looks like.""Or maybe," I added, "we just learned how to carry it better."

He looked at me, eyes soft. "You've changed."

"So have you."

"I like it." He said.

I smiled. And for the first time, it didn't ache.

Just like that, we stood under the stars, ice cream in one hand, the weight of the past in the other - quietly trading wounds for warmth.

No labels. No rushing. Just... us.

Trying again. Maybe.

He left that night - no heavy goodbyes, no longing stares.

Just a quiet, content kind of peace. And for the first time in a long while, I slept whole.

Not healed completely. Not fixed.

But whole enough.

─── ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ───

When morning came, sunlight filtered through the curtains. I woke up to the familiar warmth of my sheets, a soft ache in my chest that didn't feel heavy anymore. Just... gentle.

I got ready for work like usual - coffee-deprived, mind a little fuzzy, but moving.

And then I opened my apartment door.

There he was.

Rafayel.

Leaning casually on the wall like he owned the entire floor, holding two cups of coffee. Wearing his usual white shirt, slightly tousled hair, and a smirk that made something flutter in my chest.

"You're late." He said, holding one of the cups out.

I blinked. "What?"

"For your daily caffeine injection. I figured I'd beat you to it."

I took the drink slowly. "You remembered my order?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Americano, no sugar, extra shot of espresso. So bitter it could bite."

I narrowed my eyes playfully. "You trying to call me bitter?"

"Never!" He grinned. "But maybe a little spicy."

I rolled my eyes, chuckling despite myself. We walked down the building side by side, sipping our drinks. It felt natural. Comfortable. Like muscle memory.

When we reached the front entrance, I moved to the sidewalk, ready to walk to work. But Rafayel clicked his keys, and a sleek maroon car beeped to life at the curb.

I blinked. "That yours?"

"Of course." He grinned proudly. 'Turns out, people buy art when you're miserable and paint like a madman."

"Nice car." I muttered, impressed.

"Hop in. I'm your driver now. Perks of being your ex-boyfriend turned emotionally matured reappearing love interest."

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "You're such a dork."

"But I'm your dork. Again. Tentatively. Kinda."

"Shut up and drive."

And so he did.

─── ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ───

That morning wasn't just a one-time thing.

It became a routine.

Every day, he'd show up with coffee in hand, always matching the weather. Iced when it's warm. Steaming when it's cold. Sometimes, he'd even bring a croissant or a sandwich, mumbling something about "keeping your blood sugar stable."

He'd drive me to Akso, music playing softly in the background - a playlist I didn't recognize, but I knew he made it just for me.

Some days we talked.

Some days we just sat in silence.

But it was always peaceful.

When my shift ended, he'd be there again. Waiting. Sometimes sketching me in his notebook, sometimes just watching the clouds.

And when I had days off... those were the best.

He'd whisk me away on small, quiet dates. An afternoon at Whitesand Bay. A walk through the weekend market. A late-night bookstore run where we argued about which book was more heartbreaking.

─── ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ───

One time, he drove me to his studio.

"Sleep here." He said simply, tossing me one of his oversized shirts.

"Why?" I asked, holding back a yawn.

"Because you look like your soul left your body. And I have soft blankets."

So I did.

And he didn't try to do anything.

He just made tea, dimmed the lights, and played soft jazz while I fell asleep on his bed.

Safe.

Warm.

And every time I'd wake up, he was there. Sketching. Painting. Sometimes just watching me sleep like I was his favorite artwork.

Kinda creepy but he said that he was just studying his muse. He's lucky he's handsome.

But it wasn't exactly how it used to be.

It was better.

No pretending. No running away from trauma. No heavy baggage swept under the rug.

We were older now. A little more broken. A lot more honest.

But slowly... beautifully...

We were finding our way back to each other.

One morning coffee at a time.

★★★★★