The first time she saw him, he was just a boy with dirt on his hands and stars in his eyes. James Gatz, son of a poor farmer from North Dakota, a dreamer with nothing to his name but a heart full of ambition. She was a girl of privilege, her world one of manicured gardens and silk dresses, yet something about him had drawn her in like a moth to a flame. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her, as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world. Or perhaps it was the way he spoke of the future, his voice trembling with a conviction that made her believe in impossible things.

Their love had been a secret, a fragile thing hidden from the disapproving eyes of her family. Her parents would never have allowed it, a wealthy heiress and a farmer's son? It was unthinkable. But in the quiet corners of Louisville, where the sun dipped low and the fireflies danced, they had built a world of their own. He had been her escape, her rebellion, her first taste of something real. And she had been his muse, his reason to dream bigger, to want more.

But the world was cruel, and when the war came, he left with a promise on his lips: "Wait for me." She had clung to those words, weaving them into the fabric of her hopes. But as the months turned to years, the letters grew fewer, and the silence stretched longer. Her parents pressed her to marry, to secure her future with a man of their choosing. She broke her promise, marrying a man who could give her a life of comfort, if not of love.

When he returned, he found her gone, her absence a wound that refused to heal. Determined to win her back, he reinvented himself, shedding the skin of James Gatz and emerging as Jay Gatsby, a man of wealth and mystery. He built an empire on bootlegging and ambition, all in the hope that one day, she would see him as worthy. Worthy of her love, her devotion, that she would be his once more.

Years passed, and the boy who had dreamed of her became a man who lived for her. He bought a mansion across the bay from her home, throwing lavish parties in the hopes that she might one day walk through his doors.

And then, one fateful night, she appeared.

The night was alive with the hum of jazz and the clink of champagne glasses, a symphony of excess that echoed through the halls of Gatsby's mansion. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and smoke, laughter spilling like wine over the edges of the grand estate.

She stepped outside, the salty breeze from the docks kissed her cheeks. The sky was a canvas of darkness, punctured by bursts of fireworks that bloomed like fleeting dreams. And there he was, James, or rather, Jay Gatsby, standing at the edge of the dock, his silhouette sharp against the shimmering water.

"You came," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. It wasn't a question but a statement, as if he had always known she would find her way back to him.