Some connections aren't loud.
They don't come with fireworks or movie-scene kisses.
They arrive quietly—like a soft knock on the door of your loneliness.
That's what she became to me.
A quiet presence that filled every empty space inside me without asking for anything in return.
By now, we had developed a rhythm of our own.
We weren't dating.
We weren't just friends either.
We were something in-between. Something nameless. Something real.
Sometimes we'd sit on the back steps of the auditorium after classes, our bags beside us, talking about everything and nothing. She'd complain about the horrible canteen food or her overprotective elder brother, and I'd just nod, throwing in a comment here and there—mostly because I loved listening more than I loved talking.
One evening, as we watched the sky melt from orange to dark blue, she rested her head on my shoulder without warning.
No words.
No explanation.
Just her warmth pressing softly against me.
For a second, my breath stopped.
And in the next, I realized… I didn't want it back.
"I hate this time of day," she whispered.
"Why?"
"It feels like things are ending."
Then after a pause, she added, "But sitting here… doesn't."
It was the first time I noticed how heavy her words could be.
She always spoke with ease—like she wasn't afraid of being misunderstood. But that day, I sensed the weight she carried beneath her carefree tone. And for the first time, I felt something more than just affection for her.
I felt protective.
Like whatever she was hiding beneath her laughter—I wanted to hold it for her.
That evening, we didn't say much.
Just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a silence so comfortable it didn't need to be broken.
That was when it hit me.
She wasn't just someone I liked.
She was home.
Not a house. Not a place.
But the kind of feeling you carry in your chest. The kind that makes you breathe easier just by being near.
Later that night, I wrote it in my notes app because paper felt too permanent and my heart was too full:
"She says I'm her resting place.
But the truth is, she's mine."
It wasn't love—not the kind you read in books.
But it was something maybe even more precious: peace.
In a world that never stopped spinning, she sat still with me.
And that stillness… felt like forever.