The warmth of the morning sunlight crept through the gauzy curtains, casting delicate golden streaks across the room. Amira stirred beneath the sheets, her eyes fluttering open slowly, like waking from a dream too fragile to disturb. For a moment, she lay still, letting the quiet moments stretch around her. Her gaze wandered up to the ceiling, soft and still, while the edges of the previous night clung gently to her mind like morning mist. There had been music. There had been laughter. There had been him—Idris.
The memory of him leaning close on the rooftop, the ghost of his touch on her fingers, made her chest tighten. She turned slowly, half expecting to see him lying beside her, though logic told her otherwise. She had been alone when she drifted off. And yet… it didn't feel like he'd left her behind.
A sudden sound drifted up from downstairs—the quiet clatter of dishes, the low hum of someone moving about in the kitchen. Amira sat up slowly, her heart skipping. It was too early for the house help. For a few seconds, she didn't dare to believe. But then she rose, dressed in soft silence, and padded barefoot down the staircase.
The scent of coffee met her halfway, mingling with the faint aroma of toasted bread. In the kitchen, Idris stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pouring hot water into a kettle. He looked so comfortably out of place, like someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. Her breath caught.
"You stayed," she said softly, her voice barely louder than the steam rising from the mugs on the counter.
He turned, a slow grin curving his lips. "You sound surprised."
"I am," she admitted, stepping closer.
"You sleep well?" he asked, passing her a mug.
She nodded, curling her fingers around the warmth. "Surprisingly well. I was half convinced you'd vanish with the sunrise."
"I considered it," he teased, "but the tea here is too good."
She smirked. "You're impossible."
"I've been called worse." He leaned against the counter beside her, sipping his drink. The moment lingered between them, unspoken yet charged. Then he set his mug down. "Amira, about last night…"
She turned to face him fully, bracing herself. "We didn't really talk."
"Not with words," he replied. "But I think we said enough. Still… I want to say more. If you're willing to hear it."
Her heart kicked against her ribs. "Go on."
He inhaled slowly. "I've never let anyone get this close. I'm used to keeping things light, you know? Easy. Detachable."
"And I'm not easy?"
"No," he said, eyes steady. "You're not. You're sharp and complicated. You ask the kinds of questions I don't have rehearsed answers for. You make me… feel things. And honestly? That terrifies me."
Her hand tightened around the mug. "It scares me too."
He reached for her free hand, their fingers brushing before intertwining. "But I don't want to keep running."
"Then don't," she said, a whisper between them.
They stood there, quiet and close, the kitchen filled with golden light and the soft clink of the kettle settling. Then, almost wordlessly, they stepped into the day together.
They walked through the city, no destination in mind, only the rhythm of their steps side by side. He told her stories of his childhood—the time he tried baking bread with his grandmother and mistook salt for sugar. She laughed so hard she doubled over, and he looked at her like he wanted to memorize the sound.
Amira shared memories of her university days, of sleepless nights fueled by coffee and last-minute deadlines, of her loud roommates and midnight dance sessions in the hallway. She hadn't talked like this in years—unfiltered, unafraid. She felt like she was being stitched back together with every step.
At a busy intersection, they paused to listen to a street violinist. Idris watched the man play, unmoving, eyes distant.
"What do you hear?" she asked quietly.
"Longing," he replied. "And maybe hope."
She nodded, oddly moved. "I heard the same thing."
Later, they found themselves in a cozy bookstore tucked behind a flower shop. Amira led him to the poetry section. Idris picked up a dog-eared copy of Neruda's work and read a verse aloud, his voice low and sure. She closed her eyes as he read, letting his words wash over her. Her heart ached in that familiar, poetic way she used to chase.
They ended up at a tiny diner near the pier, the kind with vinyl booths and checkered tiles. Over greasy fries and milkshakes, the conversation turned vulnerable. Idris admitted he hadn't spoken to his father in years.
"I still have his number saved," he murmured, eyes on the table. "But every time I think of calling, I freeze."
Amira stirred her shake. "I was once engaged to someone I didn't love. I almost married him because I didn't want to disappoint my parents."
He looked up, startled. "What changed?"
"I realized disappointment was better than regret."
They walked home as dusk fell, the sky bruised purple and gold. Her hand in his felt like it had always belonged there. At her doorstep, they lingered again.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For today. For being real."
He cupped her cheek gently. "It wasn't hard. Not with you."
She leaned into him. "Then why does it still feel like I'm standing on the edge of something terrifying?"
"Because you are," he said. "We both are. But sometimes, the leap is worth it."
He kissed her then. Not hurried or greedy, but slow and deliberate, full of all the things they hadn't dared say out loud. Her knees buckled slightly, and she gripped the front of his shirt to stay anchored. When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
"You terrify me," he murmured.
"Good," she said. "Because you terrify me too."
Later that night, Amira sat by her window, staring at the stars. Her lips still tingled. Her heart beat strange and full in her chest. She picked up her journal and scribbled a single line. Today, I allowed myself to be seen—and I didn't shatter.
Across town, Idris lay on his couch, an old book of poetry resting on his chest. He opened to the page he had read aloud and smiled. His phone buzzed. A message from Amira.
Thank you for not disappearing.
He typed back without thinking. Thank you for making me stay.
When he closed his eyes, it wasn't fear that filled him—it was peace.
The next morning, she met him under the giant baobab tree by the university gates. He was already there, leaning against the trunk, holding a paper cup.
"You're early," she said.
"You're late," he teased, handing her the tea.
She took a sip and looked at him curiously. "It's my favorite. How did you know?"
"I listen," he said.
They began walking again, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Their conversation flowed between jokes and dreams. She talked about building a school for girls in her hometown. He shared his dream of creating a music studio for kids who had nowhere else to go.
Then she stopped walking, eyes far away. "My mother used to say love should be both anchor and wind."
"She sounds like a poet," he said gently.
"She died two years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"I never really talk about her. She had this softness… I never learned how to wear it."
He took her hand. "Maybe you don't have to be steel anymore."
The words settled in her like warm rain, and something loosened deep inside. Not pain—release.
That night, they returned to her place. Not because the day was done, but because something else had begun. They sat on the floor, side by side, their laughter soft and honest. She fell asleep on his chest, safe and sure.
In the early morning light, she stirred. He hadn't moved.
"You didn't disappear," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. "Not this time."
As Amira lay in bed, the soft rustle of the night breeze caressed the curtains, bringing in the faint scent of hibiscus from the garden below. She stared at the ceiling, her fingers absently tracing the outline of the sheet. Tonight had been something else—something fragile, like the first brushstroke on a blank canvas. For the first time since her world had been turned upside down, she wasn't just surviving. She was feeling. Living.
The creak of a floorboard downstairs pulled her from her thoughts. Was Idris still awake? A moment of hesitation, then she stood, slipping her feet into her slippers and wrapping a robe around her frame. Padding down the hallway, she found him in the living room, seated on the couch with a book in hand, reading glasses perched lightly on the bridge of his nose.
She couldn't help but smile. He looked different like this. Softer. Warmer. Human.
"You read?" she asked quietly, standing in the doorway.
He looked up, surprised but not startled. "Only when I can't sleep."
She stepped closer. "What's keeping you up?"
His gaze met hers, slow and deliberate. "You."
Amira's breath caught.
"I keep replaying today in my head," he said, closing the book and setting it aside. "It felt too good. Like I'm going to wake up and it'll all be gone."
"It won't," she said gently, settling beside him. "I'm still here."
He turned to face her, his expression raw. "That's the problem, Amira. I'm not used to people staying. I don't know what to do with… steady."
She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Then learn with me."
Silence settled over them, not heavy but full of quiet understanding. He reached for her hand and held it against his chest, just over his heart. The steady thrum beneath her fingers was reassuring.
"I want to try," he whispered. "I want to be better. For you. For us."
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Instead, she leaned her head on his shoulder, and for a while, they simply sat there, two broken people daring to dream again.
The next morning came with an unusual peace. Idris made breakfast—badly—but the effort made her laugh. She teased him about the slightly burnt toast and the coffee that was more bitter than bold. He responded by dramatically declaring himself a culinary disaster. It was silly. It was normal. And it felt perfect.
Later that day, Amira returned to her studio, her sketchpad calling to her. She hadn't drawn in weeks, maybe months. But now, inspiration pulsed through her fingers like electricity. As the charcoal touched the paper, Idris's silhouette began to take form—broad shoulders, downturned eyes, the hint of a smile that wasn't always visible, but always felt.
Time passed unnoticed until a knock at her door drew her back. Idris stood there, holding two iced coffees and a hesitant smile.
"I thought you might need a break," he said.
"You thought right." She took the coffee and sipped. "You remembered how I take it."
"I'm observant." He leaned against the doorframe. "You were drawing."
She nodded. "It's… strange. I haven't had the urge in so long. But today, it just poured out of me."
"Let me see?"
She hesitated. Her art was her vulnerability. But something about the way he asked—soft, without pressure—made her nod. She turned the pad toward him.
His breath hitched. "That's me."
"Not just you," she murmured. "It's the version of you I see when you let your guard down."
He looked at the sketch, then at her, something unreadable passing through his gaze. "Thank you," he said finally, voice thick. "For seeing me."
That night, they didn't kiss. They didn't need to. The intimacy of shared silence, of mutual respect and budding trust, was enough. Sometimes, love didn't shout. Sometimes, it simply whispered, "I'm here."