Once Was Ours

Alessandro stood on the side terrace of the museum, tucked into a quieter space just beyond the white columns, city sounds echoing faintly in the distance.

A cigarette rested between his fingers, smoke curling into the spring air. It was his second of the night.

He didn't need it — not really. But lately, he kept reaching for the things that dulled the noise in his head.

Like the voicemail he still hadn't listened to.

Like the fact that prom night was the last time they'd—

He exhaled smoke, jaw tight.

He was sure now. Or close enough to it that it hurt.

And he knew she wasn't going to just tell him.

Then he saw her.

Bell.

Moving through the crowd inside, framed by the tall windows. Talking to a curator with that unreadable calm. Elegant. Distant. A woman he used to know like his own skin — now a mystery all over again.

He didn't realize he'd been staring until the cigarette burned too close to his fingers.

He crushed it out against the railing just as the glass door opened.

She stepped out.

Bell hadn't known he was out here — not until the faint smell of smoke hit her.

She stopped briefly in the doorway.

Their eyes locked.

Alessandro said nothing at first. Just looked at her like she wasn't real. Like maybe this time, she'd speak before disappearing again.

Bell crossed her arms loosely, eyes narrowing at the stubbed-out cigarette.

"Seriously? You smoke now?"

His lips twitched, something like a smile but not quite.

"Takes the edge off."

"Try herbal tea," she said flatly, then moved to stand at the edge of the terrace, keeping several feet between them.

Silence stretched.

Then—

"How old is he?"

Bell didn't move.

Didn't speak.

"Your son," Alessandro said, quieter this time. "How old?"

Bell was silent for a moment. Then she spoke. "I don't see how that's any of your concern."

"Your son," he said again, more firmly. "How old is he?"

A pause. A deep breath.

Bell straightened her shoulders.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Do I?"

Her voice was cool, detached — but the edge in it was sharp. It was the voice she used in meetings when someone crossed a line.

He stepped forward.

"I'm not playing games, Bell. I need to know."

She turned away. "I already told you, it's none of your business."

He blinked once, hard.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" she shot back, voice cool. "State a boundary?"

"Shut me out," he snapped. "Not after everything."

"Shut you out?" She laughed as if it was unbelievable. She continued " And everything? What exactly is that?" she challenged, turning back to him, arms crossed, jaw tight. "You wasting four years of my life? You leaving me in the dust like we hadn't spent our whole lives together? Because if I recall, I ran after you, I tried to talk to you before you left, that was your choice Alessandro. Not mine."

He stepped toward her, closing the space between them.

"How old is he?"

"Stop."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Bell." His tone darkened. "Say it."

She tried to move past him, brushing his shoulder.

But Alessandro's hand caught her arm — not hard, not hurting, just stopping her.

"Say it," he repeated, voice low. Urgent. Unsteady. "Tell me how old your son is."

Her jaw clenched. She looked down at where his hand touched her, then up at him. Her voice shook.

"Let go of me."

He did. Immediately. But he didn't step back.

"Just answer the question," he said, more quietly this time. "That's all I need. One number. One truth."

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

A breath.

Another.

And then—

"Six," she whispered. "He just turned six."

The silence that followed was different. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood there.

Staring.

Everything inside him went still.

And in that stillness, something broke.

Because now he knew.

And she knew he knew.

Bell turned before he could say anything else, disappearing into the crowd inside with her head high — but her heart splintered all over again.

....

The terrace was empty now.

He didn't move.

Couldn't.

The weight of two syllables pressed down on him like concrete.

Six Years

His hands were in his pockets, but they curled into fists.

The noise from inside the gallery dulled — a blur of champagne and clinking glasses and murmured names — but Alessandro didn't hear any of it. Not really.

His pulse thundered in his ears. His chest rose and fell, slow and heavy, like he was trying to catch his breath without showing it.

She hadn't said it angrily.

She hadn't said it with guilt.

She'd said it like it was a fact she'd already made peace with.

Six years.

Prom night. The last time.

That was ours.

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

He hadn't even listened to the voicemails. The phone had sat in the drawer at his place in Milan for years — a leftover ghost of a life he wasn't allowed to mourn. He'd only found it again after the move. And when he saw her name, there was just one voicemail. All his messages and calls had been erased.

Because he thought she hated him.

Because he thought she had moved on.

Because his grandfather said it was better that way.

But she had tried, and he didn't know that.

And she had his son.

She didn't tell me.

The realization hit harder than he expected.

Bell — the girl he would've set the world on fire for — hadn't told him.

She'd let him walk back into this city. Into this life. Into a business deal with her company. And she hadn't said a word.

A bitter laugh escaped him, humorless.

He wasn't even sure what emotion was strongest — the shock, the guilt, the anger, the ache.

He turned, bracing his hands against the railing, head bowed.

He had a son.

And he'd missed everything.

His first steps. His first words. His first birthday. Every fever. Every nightlight. Every tear. Every laugh. All of it.

And now, his son probably thought someone else was his hero.

Or worse — maybe he didn't ask about his father at all.

Alessandro gritted his teeth, his voice low and bitter.

"What the hell did you do, Bell…"

But deep down, he knew the question was just as much for himself.