Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 139: Let This Remember

Camila stepped outside gently, closing the glass door behind her with a soft click.

Billy was still seated, elbows on the table, one hand absently circling the rim of his glass.

He didn’t look up right away.

Camila didn’t speak at first. She walked over and settled into the chair Eleanor had just left, the cushion still slightly warm. Her presence wasn’t intrusive. Just there. Solid. Familiar.

Billy finally glanced her way.

"She’s kind," he said, voice soft.

Camila nodded.

"She is."

A small pause.

"And she didn’t want this either," he added.

Camila folded her arms on the table, resting her chin there like they used to do as kids during lazy Sundays.

"Sometimes the people who do everything right... end up in the wrong place anyway."

Billy gave a faint smile at that — dry, but honest.

"We’re free now," he said.

"You are," she corrected gently. "And I’m glad."

Another quiet pause, filled only by the breeze rustling the edge of the tablecloth.

Camila nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"So... was that as awkward as I imagined?"

Billy let out a quiet chuckle.

"Worse," he murmured. "But also... weirdly peaceful."

She grinned.

"You’re welcome. I practically choreographed that peace."

He gave her a sidelong look.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

She looked at him with the same expression she always used when she was proud — eyes soft, a little teasing, but full of quiet warmth.

"You’re really finding yourself again, huh?"

Billy leaned back, exhaling slowly as he looked out across the garden.

"I’m trying."

Camila looked at him for a long moment, then slowly reached out, grabbing one of the snacks left behind and popping it into her mouth.

"Well," she said with a shrug, "now that you’re officially free, we should celebrate."

"Celebrate?"

"Yeah. I mean, you’re basically a born-again single man with a sketchbook and emotional growth. That’s practically rare."

Billy laughed — an actual laugh this time.

"You’re unbelievable."

"You love me."

"...Unfortunately."

They sat like that for a while — just breathing, just existing.

No expectations. No pressure.Just peace.

Camila stretched back in her chair, sunlight catching the edge of her smile.

Billy was still thoughtful — gaze soft, hands resting on the table.

She glanced sideways at him, tilting her head.

"So now you’re ready?"

He blinked. "For what?"

"The tattoo."

A beat.

His lips parted slightly, then curved — not a big smile, but a meaningful one.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I am."

Camila stood, brushing off invisible lint from her jeans.

"Good. I’m about to head out anyway. I’ll drop you off."

Billy looked at her, still surprised by how smoothly she always fit herself into the cracks of his life — no questions, just presence.

"You really don’t have to—"

"Don’t make it weird," she said with a grin. "You’re getting a piece of someone you care about inked on your chest. Least I can do is offer a ride."

Billy stood slowly.

"Let me grab the sketch."

"And change your shirt," she added, wrinkling her nose. "You can’t show up to a tattoo place looking like you just made peace with your fake fiancée."

He laughed under his breath.

They headed back inside the house, steps in sync.

Billy opened the drawer where he kept the folded drawing — the one he’d done in silence that night.

The lake. The tree. Artur — alone, peaceful. A moment frozen in time.

He stared at it for a second longer, then carefully slipped it into his bag.

The caption, small in the corner, caught his eye one more time: "If I forget, let this remember."

"Where I found myself."

He changed into a plain black shirt, clean and simple — then stepped out of the room where Camila was waiting with car keys in hand.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Let’s go mark the beginning, then."

And with that, they walked out the door together — toward a quiet, permanent promise.

The car slowed to a stop at the curb, soft music still playing faintly from the speakers.

The tattoo studio stood quietly under a painted sign, its glass windows tinted just enough to blur the view inside. Clean. Calm. Tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore — like it belonged there.

Billy reached for the door handle, but paused when Camila spoke.

"Do you want me to wait? Or come back and carry you home when you cry like a baby?" she teased lightly, one brow raised.

Billy said shaking his head.

"No, it’s okay," he said gently. "I’m going to stop by the apartment after this. Haven’t been back in a while."

Camila studied him for a second — making sure he meant it.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I think it’s time."

She gave a small, warm nod, then reached over and gave his arm a light squeeze.

"Alright. Text me after. And if you pass out mid-ink, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

He chuckled, already stepping out of the car.

"Take care, Mila."

"You too."

The door shut with a soft click — the sound of beginnings.

Camila waited just long enough to see him walk through the front door of the studio before driving off — her reflection fading in the rearview mirror.

The air inside was cool and quiet, the soft hum of machines in the background. A faint scent of clean soap and faint ink lingered.

Billy stepped up to the front counter where a woman looked up with a kind smile.

"Hi. I have an appointment... Billy Sandoval."

She checked the log.

"Right on time. You brought your design?"

He opened his bag and carefully slid out the folded paper — the lake, the tree, the lone figure.

"That’s beautiful," she said softly. "We’ll take good care of it."

Billy gave a nod — slow, steady.

He followed her to the back, heart calm, but something quietly burning in his chest.

Not pain. Not fear. Just meaning for Rhythm.

The studio room was quiet, lit by soft natural light spilling through a high window. Framed art hung neatly on the walls. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy.

Billy sat in the leather chair, his shirt folded neatly beside him.

The artist all steady hands and warmer eyes nodded with a kind of understanding only stranger sometimes have, she adjusted the position of the tracing paper on his left chest.

"You sure about the placement?" she asked gently.

He looked down at the design — Artur by the tree near the lake, captured in delicate lines.

"Yes. Right there," he said softly, fingertips brushing his chest, just above his heart. "It’s where it belongs."

She nodded, respectful. No further questions.

The machine buzzed to life — low, steady.

Billy inhaled. The first press of the needle bit gently into his skin — sharp, but not painful. Just... real.

He didn’t flinch.

His eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling. But his mind drifted far.

He saw the lake again. Late afternoon sun... The quiet water... Artur sitting under the tree, chin tilted up as the wind played with his hair. That unspoken calm between them — before the storm of goodbye.

Billy’s jaw tightened just slightly, but he didn’t speak.

The artist moved slowly, carefully — line by line.

He remembered Artur’s laugh — low and reluctant at first, then full.

The way he always reached back for Billy in his sleep, as if even dreaming, he didn’t want to lose him.

He blinked once — a slow, deliberate breath.

He didn’t want to forget that.

Not ever.

The buzz faded. The artist wiped the final spot clean, then reached for the mirror.

"You can look now."

Billy sat up slowly.

His reflection stared back from the angled glass.

The lake. The tree. Artur — forever beneath its branches, caught in ink and memory.

And beneath the sketch, small and neat:

"If I forget, let this remember."

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, eyes full but steady.

"It suits you," the artist said quietly.

Billy pulled his shirt back on gently — slower than usual, careful not to disturb the fresh ink.

"Thank you," he said softly.

She smiled and handed him the aftercare instructions.

Billy stepped outside into the soft afternoon air.

He stood there for a moment, eyes closing as he tilted his face toward the sun.

The ink still burned a little — not from pain.

But from meaning.

He turned toward the street.

Not home.

Not yet.

His apartment.

The walk wasn’t long — maybe ten minutes from the tattoo studio — but Billy took it slowly.

His hand occasionally drifted toward his chest, as if checking the drawing was still there. Of course it was. Now, always.

The city buzzed around him — cars, voices, motion — but he walked like he was moving through a quieter world.

He paused when the building came into view.

His apartment. Grey concrete. Faint cracks on the edge of the steps. Same old rust on the gate latch.

He stood at the door a moment too long before pulling out the spare key from his wallet — one he’d forgotten he still had.

The lock clicked.

The air inside was still.

Not dusty — someone had cleaned, probably Camila — but untouched.

Time had paused here.

He stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. His footsteps were soft on the wooden floor.

Everything looked like he’d left it... but not. The couch felt too straight. The bookshelf too neat. The air too... untouched.

He walked toward the window and opened it. The breeze that entered didn’t carry the scent of soil or lakewater — just city. Exhaust. Brick. Sky.

He leaned against the frame for a moment, eyes scanning the skyline like it could answer something.

Then, slowly, he turned.

His fingers brushed across the back of the couch. Then the small upright piano in the corner — sheet music still propped open, a half-filled notebook beside it. Some markings in faded pencil.

He sat down on the bench, hand hovering above the keys.

Not yet.

Not today.

Instead, he stood and walked to the shelf near the bed. There were photos there — one of him at an award night, one beside his father. Another with Camila, mid-laugh.

Then one tucked in a frame near the back.

A fan-made sketch. Of him in costume from a past film.

He stared at it quietly.

All of it felt so far away.

He sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled—slow, deliberate—like finally letting go of someone he used to be.

He took a long sip of water. Removed his shirt again gently. Stood before the mirror.

His fingers lightly traced the edge of the fresh tattoo through the clear wrap.

It didn’t hurt.

It felt like remembering.

Like carrying something home.

A piece of him was here now — not what people saw on billboards, not what they expected in interviews... But what he found at the edge of a quiet village.

Billy sat down again. And finally — finally — his fingers touched the piano keys.

A note.

Then another.

Just a hushed melody.

Not rehearsed. Not remembered. Just... felt.

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