He Promised Me A Sunset, He Kissed Her Under It Chapter 10

He Promised Me A Sunset, He Kissed Her Under It Chapter 10

On opening day of the showcase, I stood in front of my own film and gave an interview.

On the enormous screen behind me, wind swept sand through thousand year-old ruins.

Morning light poured through cracks in a broken wall as a conservator bent over a faded mural, gently brushing away the dust.

My film was called Beyond Dusk.

The reporter asked, “Why did you choose that title?”

I looked at the sky on the screen as it slowly brightened.

“Because dusk isn’t the end.”

“If you keep moving forward, you’ll always find light again.”

When the interview ended, I turned around and saw Ethan standing at the edge of the crowd.

I hadn’t seen Ethan in a year. He was much thinner now, his usually crisp shirt wrinkled and exhaustion showing beneath his eyes.

He stared at me for a long time before speaking, his voice rough.

“Claire.”

I gave him a polite nod.

“It’s been a while.”

The distance in my voice made his eyes redden instantly.

He hurried toward me and pulled our fourth-anniversary scrapbook from his bag.

“I kept this. I rented the apartment again and I can reopen the studio too.”

“You love filmmaking. I won’t stand in your way again.”

“I’ve cut ties with Chloe and Ryan.”

The words came quickly, as if listing everything he’d changed could somehow take us back to when we were eighteen.

I looked at the scrapbook but didn’t reach for it.

“Ethan, you still don’t understand. I didn’t leave to force you to change. I left because I didn’t want you anymore.”

His hand froze in midair.

“But we were together for four years.”

“You can’t erase four years because I made one mistake.”

“One?”

I gave a quiet laugh.

“When my dad had surgery, you lied and told me Ryan had been in an accident so you could come to Lake Tahoe for Chloe’s birthday.”

“When I had a high fever and needed to go to the hospital, you left me to take her biking.”

“The apartment I rented for us to build a life in? Before I ever moved in, you’d already taken her there to drink, shower, and wear your clothes.”

“And the sunset we’d promised each other for four years? You kissed her right in front of me.”

I looked at him calmly.

“Ethan, it wasn’t one mistake.”

“Every time you had a choice to make, you never chose me.”

His face slowly went pale.

“I know I was wrong.”

“Claire, give me one more chance.”

“This time, I’ll choose you. I swear.”

“I don’t need that anymore.”

I took one step back.

“When I wanted you to choose me, you treated me like I was being jealous and dramatic.”

“Now that I don’t need you to choose me anymore, why would it matter?”

His eyes turned red as he tightened his grip on the scrapbook.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I’ve regretted it every day for the past year.”

“The studio’s gone. My friends are gone. I have nothing left.”

A year ago, those words might have softened me.

I might have thought he’d finally paid for what he’d done.

But I felt nothing but calm now.

“That’s your life.”

“It isn’t my responsibility.”

His lips trembled.

“Do you really not love me at all anymore?”

I didn’t answer.

Really moving on wasn’t about hating him or trying to prove I didn’t love him anymore.

It was realizing that the answer no longer mattered.

Professor Reed waved to me from across the gallery.

An international cultural heritage organization had seen my work and invited me to join a cross-border imaging project the following year.

I nodded once to Ethan.

“I have to go.”

He reached for me on instinct, then stopped just before his hand touched me.

“Claire.”

“What if I keep waiting for you?”

I looked toward Beyond Dusk playing in the center of the gallery.

“Don’t wait.”

“I waited for you for four years, from eighteen to twenty-two.”

“You never showed up.”

Then I turned and walked toward the people who were waiting for me.

Ethan remained where he was and never came after me.

After that, I traveled farther—through deserts, islands, rain forests, and snowfields, capturing each one through my lens.

I still intended to see every lake in the American West before I turned thirty.

Whether anyone was beside me when I did no longer mattered.

At eighteen, I’d believed that sharing a sunset with someone was the perfect ending to a love story.

Later, I finally understood.

The sunset was never there to fulfill anyone’s promise.

It was there to remind me of one thing: even after the sun went down, I could still walk toward dawn on my own.