Our conversations continued the same way—long, unforced, natural. Some days we talked about nothing at all. Other days, she opened up in ways that felt heavier, more personal. She spoke about her worries, the pressure she felt, the expectations people placed on her. About her family. About feeling like she always had to be strong, even when she didn't want to be.
I didn't try to fix anything.
I just stayed.
Sometimes she talked about love.
Or rather, about why she didn't believe in it.
She spoke calmly, like it was a conclusion she had reached long ago. Love, to her, was unreliable—something people promised and failed to protect. Something that hurt more than it healed.
I didn't argue.
The truth was, I didn't believe in love much either. Not the way people described it, not the way stories made it look effortless and certain. Still, when I spoke, I spoke gently. Not because I was convinced—but because I wanted her to feel like it was possible. I told her maybe one day she could try believing in it again. Not because it always worked, but because she deserved to feel loved at least once.
She didn't agree.
She didn't disagree either.
Life in school stayed the same. I was still quiet in class, still unsure how to talk to her when she stood right in front of me. We existed in the same space without really meeting there. The distance between us wasn't physical—it was the difference between who I was in messages and who I was in real life.
Then one day, I heard a rumour.
Lyra and a guy from our class—Mike.
People said they were dating.
My first reaction was disbelief. Knowing how fiercely she dismissed love, the idea didn't feel real. It didn't match the version of her I knew. Rumours had a way of growing out of nothing.
But then I started noticing things I hadn't before.
The way they talked easily in school.
The way they stood close, laughed, walked together.
Nothing obvious. Nothing that confirmed anything. Just enough to make me feel… aware.
I didn't feel angry.
I didn't feel betrayed.
I felt something quieter.
A small, uncomfortable jealousy—not of him, but of how easily he could be there with her. How natural it looked. How real it was.
I caught myself wishing I could be like that in front of her. Wishing I didn't freeze. Wishing the version of myself she knew so well through texts could exist outside of them too.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't ask her about it.
I carried the feeling alone, unsure of what it meant, unsure of whether I even had the right to feel it.
Some time passed after that. The rumour didn't grow louder, and it didn't disappear either. It just existed in the background, like something unfinished. And the longer I sat with it, the more curious I became.
So one night, I asked the only way I knew how.
Lightly.
Carelessly.
As a joke.
I brought it up casually in our conversation, half-expecting her to laugh it off or change the topic. Instead, she replied simply.
She said she wasn't dating anyone.
She said she still didn't believe in love.
There was no hesitation in her words.
That should have been the end of it. I should have let it go there. But something in me—maybe curiosity, maybe comfort, maybe trust—pushed me to ask one more thing.
I told her she didn't have to answer if she didn't want to. I asked if it was too much to ask. And then I asked why she denied love so fiercely.
She didn't reply immediately.
When she finally did, the tone was different.
She told me about her parents.
They had a love marriage. A real one—the kind people admired from the outside. But it didn't last the way love stories promised. What began with choice slowly turned into conflict, disappointment, and distance. Watching that happen up close taught her something early: that love wasn't protection, and choosing someone didn't mean they would stay kind.
Then she told me about her childhood.
About people who said they loved her in ways that weren't love at all. People who crossed boundaries. People who made her feel unsafe. People who left behind fear instead of comfort.
She didn't dramatize it.
She didn't ask for sympathy.
She just explained.
Love, to her, wasn't gentle.
It wasn't safe.
It wasn't something she wanted to trust again.
I didn't interrupt.
I didn't try to soften it.
I didn't defend love this time.
I just listened.
And in that moment, I understood something I hadn't before—not about love, but about her. About why she held herself the way she did. About why she stayed guarded even when she was kind. About why believing in love felt more dangerous to her than denying it ever could.
That night, nothing between us changed outwardly.
But something settled quietly inside me.
A deeper understanding.
A heavier respect.
And a feeling I still didn't name—but one I carried more carefully than before.