The world had begun humming otherwise. Not booming, not celebratory, but gentler—like a gentle comprehension had settled on Ariella and the days that carried her along. Her mornings were no longer a struggle. They opened out, tentative but welcoming, like the morning sky before it broke.
She had been washing clothes when she heard the knock on the door. It wasn't loud, just three soft taps. She padded barefoot over, still wearing her cotton shirt and leggings, and opened the door to see Leona standing there with a weary smile and a tray covered with foil.
"I made too much," Leona explained, holding up the tray. "Again."
Ariella smiled, stepping aside. "You're too much is always just enough."
Leona came in, already at ease in Ariella's space. "You have to stop doing laundry on Sunday. It's a day of nothing it's supposed to be."
"It's my thinking time," Ariella replied, closing the door behind her. "Fold, think, repeat."
They sat on the couch, the tray of lemon-pepper chicken and sautéed greens placed between them. The aroma was warm and earthy.
"I wanted to tell you something," Leona said after a couple of bites, setting down her fork. "There's a women's circle. Not church. Just… women. Stories. Breathing. Tea. I go sometimes."
Ariella raised an eyebrow. "Like a support group?"
"Not exactly. No one makes anyone talk. You just show up as you are. Sometimes that's the hardest part."
Something in Leona's tone made Ariella pause. "Is it tomorrow?"
"Tonight. They're holding it at Haven Grounds. That café down on Maple."
Ariella hesitated. The idea tugged at something deep inside her—equal parts fear and curiosity. "I don't know if I'm ready to talk in front of people."
"Then don't," Leona said, her voice steady. "You can just listen. That's enough."
—
The café was stuck between a second-hand bookstore and a flower shop that never seemed to be open. Haven Grounds looked like another city—random chairs, artwork on the walls, and candles flickering in mason jars.
Ariella moved behind Leona and was immediately enveloped in the scent of cinnamon and a touch of something herbal. There were maybe ten women in the room, reclining in a circle. Some were young, some middle-aged. One had a baby strapped to her chest, and another had paint-stained jeans.
No one looked up when she entered. That was a relief.
They sat, and somebody handed Ariella a cup of lavender tea silently. She held it in her palms, enjoying the warmth on her skin.
Silence began the session. A timer was set, and nobody said a word for three minutes.
Three good minutes.
Ariella thought it would be awkward, but it wasn't. It was. Respectful. Like everybody had agreed to let the world outside wait.
When the timer went off, a braided woman with silver took her turn. "I learned this week that I can change my mind. Even if it's a do-over."
Another one spoke. "I told my son I can't do everything for him anymore. I want a life too."
Both of their voices were like a bark stripped bare—truths, shakes, braveness. And Ariella just listened, heart open and throat shut.
She did not say a word. But her quiet was not empty. It was saturated, like absorbing something before it could bloom.
—
After the circle dissolved, Leona remained behind to speak with some of the women. Ariella came out into the night air outside. The street was quieter now, the lamps casting a golden light over the pavement.
She strolled, fingers jammed in her pockets, head full. The night pushed up close but not clammy—it was a push.
She came around a corner and intended to head home when something drew her in. A tiny vendor stall, aglow with dangling fairy lights and a hand-scrawled sign that said: Light & Lore.
A woman sat behind the table, stacking tiny notebooks with stitched covers by hand. Her silver rings glinted, her eyes soft under the folds of her scarf.
Ariella almost passed by, but the woman looked up.
"Searching for something?" she inquired, not ungrateful.
Ariella paused. "Just wandering."
Wandering has a way of taking us exactly where we need to go," the woman answered, slapping a tiny book. "These are hand-made. Some are empty. Some have text. I don't title them. People take what they say."
Ariella raised an eyebrow. "Messages?"
The woman grinned. "Not prophecies. Just words. Every so often someone needs to read something when they need to read it. That's all".
Ariella reached out and ran her fingers over the spines until one of them arrested her attention. Dark blue, with gold embroidery. She opened it and one sentence stared back at her on the very first page:
"You are not hard to love. You were just asking it from the wrong place."
Her breath caught.
The woman did not say a word, merely nodded once, knowing.
Ariella bought the journal.
—
She placed the book on her nightstand as if it were a sacrament in her bedroom. The words echoed through as she prepared for bed—brushing her teeth, getting into pajamas, clicking off the light.
Not hard to love.
She'd spent so long wondering if she was. If her needs were too big. If her silence was too much. If her softness made her disappear.
Logan never told him so, but the silences, the brush-offs, the more robust laughter at Eva—these testified too.
She settled into bed and stared up at the ceiling, journal crumpled against her chest.
Maybe healing wasn't an intense big moment. Maybe it was a series of tiny, sacred moments—a woman's circle, a stranger's stall, a sentence in a book—that rethreaded you without you even knowing.
And maybe, this hurt inside her wasn't a wound anymore.
Maybe it was ground being cleared—of something tougher. Something untrue.
—
The next morning, Ariella woke up before her alarm clock. The sun shooting through the blinds was golden, warm. Her initial breath was even, and for the first time, not strained.
She reached for the journal and turned to a blank sheet.
She had no clue what she'd say.
But for the first time in a long time, she wanted to try it.
She began with a single line: "I am learning to return to myself".
The words rooted themselves like boulders in her heart—solid, grounding.
She wrote some more. Not for anyone else but for herself.
Outside, the world continued. But inside her, there was quiet. Grounded.
Becoming.