6 hours ago
The revelry pressed inward in waves, the gallery beginning to feel like a living thing with a hundred beating hearts, and none of them her own.
Daphne held her posture like a blade: still, elegant, just short of rigid. The fabric of her silvery-white dress shimmered faintly under gallery lights, its opalescent sheen catching every flicker of movement around her. She hadn’t touched her drink. She hadn’t needed to, the fuzz of intoxication was already starting to smother her. The heat of the crowd, the sharp joy of the hour, the emotional excess collected beneath her skin in fine, invisible tremors. How close to midnight were they? Would she make it that long?
But through the throng came a quiet presence, a familiar, specific shift that gave her pause. The sound of her name curved through the hum of the party like a thread of silk drawn against skin. She felt it in her spine before she processed it with her ears. Her heart gave a quiet, involuntary lurch.
A wave of sentiment washed through her. It was recognition colored in warmth, nostalgia, and something quieter… grief? No. Not quite. A farewell not yet spoken, but already known. The sensation prickled along the edge of her senses, not overwhelming, but familiar enough to fracture her composure for a breath. When she did turn her head, it was slow and careful. Her expression remained porcelain-smooth, but her eyes sharpened as they found the source.
Emotion curled around her like candlelight: welcoming, untethered, and utterly sincere. “Eve!”
Eve had not changed. But something inside her had became anchored. Daphne could feel it without trying. There was a soft grief beneath the surface was not regret. It was simply the quiet sadness of someone who had made peace with what would no longer be. So this is where Eve had been all this time? And that they found one another on this night of all nights!
She approached as if to share twin kisses on the cheek but was careful to make no contact nor smear one another’s makeup.
Daphne held her posture like a blade: still, elegant, just short of rigid. The fabric of her silvery-white dress shimmered faintly under gallery lights, its opalescent sheen catching every flicker of movement around her. She hadn’t touched her drink. She hadn’t needed to, the fuzz of intoxication was already starting to smother her. The heat of the crowd, the sharp joy of the hour, the emotional excess collected beneath her skin in fine, invisible tremors. How close to midnight were they? Would she make it that long?
But through the throng came a quiet presence, a familiar, specific shift that gave her pause. The sound of her name curved through the hum of the party like a thread of silk drawn against skin. She felt it in her spine before she processed it with her ears. Her heart gave a quiet, involuntary lurch.
A wave of sentiment washed through her. It was recognition colored in warmth, nostalgia, and something quieter… grief? No. Not quite. A farewell not yet spoken, but already known. The sensation prickled along the edge of her senses, not overwhelming, but familiar enough to fracture her composure for a breath. When she did turn her head, it was slow and careful. Her expression remained porcelain-smooth, but her eyes sharpened as they found the source.
Emotion curled around her like candlelight: welcoming, untethered, and utterly sincere. “Eve!”
Eve had not changed. But something inside her had became anchored. Daphne could feel it without trying. There was a soft grief beneath the surface was not regret. It was simply the quiet sadness of someone who had made peace with what would no longer be. So this is where Eve had been all this time? And that they found one another on this night of all nights!
She approached as if to share twin kisses on the cheek but was careful to make no contact nor smear one another’s makeup.
![[Image: Daphne-sig-updated.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Daphne-sig-updated.jpg)