The quiet that followed her retreat did not push him away. It taught him.
Jedson began to understand that catching her was never about being the strongest or the most unbreakable. It wasn't about fixing her storms or standing as an immovable wall against the world.
It was about presence.
Consistency.
Staying.
He realised that sometimes, when the world became too much for her, the greatest act of love was not to pull her closer — but to honour the small space she needed, trusting that she would return when she felt safe enough to do so.
And she always did.
He, on the other hand, often sought comfort through closeness. Through shared words. Through the reassurance of another body near his own. Where he leaned in, she sometimes leaned inward.
So they learned to meet each other halfway.
A soft compromise. A gentle understanding.
When she withdrew, he remained nearby — not crowding, not abandoning. Just present. A quiet anchor waiting patiently at the edge of her silence. And when he felt weighed down by his own thoughts, she reached for him — offering warmth, affection, and the tenderness he so easily craved.
They reshaped the promise together.
Not as a vow of perfection. But as something far more real.
No matter how heavy the moment became… No matter how differently they coped…
In the end, they would always find their way back to one another.
Not through force. Not through fear.
But through choice.
A quiet, living promise that said:
I will stay.