“Louis? What are you doing lurking in the shadows?”

The voice, smooth as polished obsidian, cut through his tormented thoughts. Joyce. 

He hadn’t even heard her approach. She emerged from the dim light, her expression a practiced blend of concern and curiosity, though her eyes held a predatory glint he knew all too well.

“Joyce,” he managed, his voice rough. He straightened, trying to compose himself, to rebuild the emotional barriers that had crumbled.

She took a step closer, her gaze sweeping over him, assessing his vulnerability. “I heard about Cheryl’s little… incident. Quite a mess, isn’t it? Such a shame. All that delicate equipment. It takes a certain level of foresight, doesn’t it, to manage such an intricate project?” 

Her tone was sympathetic, yet laced with a subtle insinuation.

Louis felt a flicker of defensiveness for Cheryl, but it was quickly overshadowed by his own swirling doubts. He remembered the delays, the rumors Joyce had spread, the subtle undermining. 

Had Cheryl been too ambitious? Was her vision, as Joyce had once suggested, too niche, too fragile for the grand scale of the observatory gala?

Joyce continued, her voice a silken thread weaving through his insecurities. “It reminds me, in a way, of our early days, doesn’t it? The sheer scale of ‘The Cosmic Weavers’ projects. We had to be so meticulous, so utterly in sync. Remember that time the projection array almost failed at the planetarium launch? If I hadn’t double-checked every single connection, every contingency…” 

She trailed off, letting the unspoken implication hang in the air: Cheryl isn’t me. She isn’t capable of what we were.

He did remember. He remembered the intensity of their collaboration, the way their minds had intertwined, the feeling of invincibility they’d once shared. 

He remembered the passion, the belief that together, they could create anything. And he remembered how that belief had been shattered.

“It’s a different kind of art,” Louis said, his voice flat, trying to defend Cheryl, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

Joyce chuckled softly, a sound that grated on his nerves. “Is it? Or is it simply… less robust? Less grounded? You always had a knack for finding the ethereal, Louis. But for a project of this magnitude, you need someone who can handle the practicalities, the logistics, the sheer pressure. Someone who understands the business of art, not just the fleeting inspiration.” 

She paused, her eyes locking onto his. “Someone who won’t let you down when the stakes are highest.”

The words were a direct hit, striking at the core of his deepest wound. Let you down. 

Joyce had let him down. She had betrayed him in the most profound way. 

And now, she was subtly suggesting Cheryl might do the same, not through malice, but through a lack of competence, a fragility that couldn’t withstand the pressures of their shared vision.

“Cheryl is brilliant,” Louis insisted, but his conviction wavered. He thought of the shattered vials, the ruined equipment. 

He thought of Dennis, stepping in, taking charge, offering a steady hand. He thought of his own inability to provide that same immediate, practical solace.

“Oh, I don’t doubt her spark,” Joyce conceded, a dismissive wave of her hand. “But spark isn’t enough to build an empire, is it? Or even a successful gala exhibit. It takes resilience. Foresight. A certain… ruthlessness, perhaps, to protect the work. To protect you.” 

Her gaze softened, a manipulative warmth entering her eyes. “I always protected our work, Louis. I always protected you.”

A cold sweat broke out on Louis’s brow. Her words were poison, insidious and effective. 

They twisted his memories, making him question everything. Had Joyce truly been protecting him, in her own twisted way, by taking credit for their work, by forcing him into reclusion where he couldn’t be hurt again? 

The thought was monstrous, yet it lodged itself in his mind, a tiny, insidious seed of doubt.

He looked away, his gaze drawn to the distant, glittering city lights, a pale imitation of the cosmos he usually found solace in. He felt a profound sense of disorientation. 

Cheryl, with her luminous scents and her ability to see into his soul, had felt like a new beginning, a chance at healing. But now, after witnessing Dennis’s unwavering devotion and hearing Joyce’s insidious whispers, he was adrift.

Could he trust his judgment? Could he trust his heart, which had led him down such a treacherous path before? 

Was Cheryl, for all her brilliance, truly strong enough to navigate the treacherous waters of their collaboration, let alone the complexities of his own damaged heart? 

Or was she, as Joyce implied, too fragile, too easily overwhelmed, destined to disappoint him just as others had?

The image of Cheryl, weeping in Dennis’s arms, flashed before his eyes. Dennis, the steady star. 

Louis, the volatile nebula. He felt a crushing weight of responsibility, a fear that his own darkness, his own unresolved trauma, would only bring her pain. 

He had opened up to her, yes, but could he truly offer her the secure, unwavering future she deserved? Could he be the man she needed, when Dennis so clearly was?

He closed his eyes, the vastness of the cosmos suddenly feeling less like a source of inspiration and more like an endless, terrifying void. His burgeoning feelings for Cheryl, once a source of exhilarating hope, now felt like a dangerous precipice, threatening to plunge him back into the very darkness he had fought so hard to escape. 

He doubted Cheryl. He doubted himself. And in that moment, the chasm between them felt wider than ever before.