The visit wasn't planned.
That was the worst part.
My father showed up two days later, standing outside my apartment like time hadn't passed at all. Same posture. Same guarded expression. Just more lines on his face.
I froze when I opened the door.
"You didn't say you were coming," I said.
"I didn't know how," he replied.
That was honest. Rare.
I stepped aside and let him in.
Arvan was there—sitting quietly, not intruding, not hiding. When my father noticed him, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"So," he said, "this is him."
Arvan stood. Calm. Respectful.
"Yes," he said simply. "I'm Arvan."
No titles.
No defenses.
My father studied him, then looked back at me.
"You've changed," he said.
"I've grown," I replied. "There's a difference."
Silence followed—heavy with everything we'd never finished.
"I didn't know how to raise someone like you," my father admitted finally. "You were always… ahead of me."
The words hit harder than accusation ever could.
"I didn't need you to lead me," I said quietly. "I needed you to trust me."
He looked away.
"I thought pushing would make you stronger."
"It made me leave," I replied.
The truth settled between us, raw and unavoidable.
Arvan didn't speak.
He didn't rescue the moment.
He let it belong to us.
"I saw you on that stage," my father said after a long pause. "You didn't look like you were borrowing power."
"I wasn't," I said.
Another pause.
"I'm sorry," he said—quiet, imperfect, real.
My breath caught.
"I don't need you to fix the past," I said softly. "I just don't want to carry it anymore."
He nodded once.
"I won't ask you to come back," he said. "I'll ask how to stay… if you'll let me."
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I said, "We'll start with honesty."
When he left later, the apartment felt lighter.
Not healed.
But open.
I turned to Arvan.
"You didn't step in," I said.
He shook his head. "It wasn't my place."
"But you stayed."
"Yes," he replied. "That was."
I moved closer, resting my forehead against his chest.
"You let me fall apart," I whispered.
"You didn't," he said. "You stood differently."
I looked up at him.
"You didn't try to fix me."
"I didn't need to," he replied. "I trust who you are when no one's watching."
Something in me settled then—quiet, complete.
Because strength had built my life.
But vulnerability had just changed it.
And this time, I didn't walk away from either.