Chapter Twenty-Three
Morning came softly, like it wasn't sure it was welcome.
She woke before her alarm, eyes heavy but mind already racing. For a few seconds, she forgot everything—then reality rushed back in. The unanswered questions. The message from last night. The fragile peace that felt like it could shatter with one wrong word.
Her phone was still in her hand.
No new messages.
She sighed and rolled onto her side, staring at the wall. Part of her wanted him to text again—proof that last night wasn't just a moment of guilt. Another part of her feared what he might say next. Because honesty could heal… or break things completely.
By mid-morning, she was out, walking without a destination. The air felt different after a sleepless night—sharper, clearer, like it demanded truth. She slipped her earbuds in but didn't play anything. Silence felt more honest today.
Her phone vibrated.
Her heart jumped.
Can we talk later? Properly. In person.
She stopped walking.
The word properly sat heavy in her chest.
She typed back almost immediately.
Yes.
Three letters. Steady hands. Brave heart.
⸻
He spent the entire day restless.
Nothing felt right—not the food, not the noise around him, not the forced conversations he half-listened to. Every time he checked the time, it felt like it moved slower, stretching the hours just to mess with him.
He knew this conversation would change things.
He just didn't know how.
By evening, the sky had turned that soft orange that made everything feel nostalgic. He arrived early, hands in his pockets, pacing near the familiar spot they'd shared a hundred easy moments before. It felt strange standing there now, like a ghost revisiting a past life.
When he saw her walking toward him, his chest tightened.
She looked calm. Too calm.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
Awkward silence slid between them, thick and uncomfortable.
"Thanks for coming," he added.
"I said I would."
That wasn't cold. Just honest.
They sat on the bench, leaving just enough space between them to acknowledge the tension. The city hummed around them—cars passing, distant laughter, life continuing like nothing was wrong.
He rubbed his palms together. "I've been dealing with a lot. Stuff I never really talk about. And when it started getting heavy again, I did what I always do. I shut everyone out."
She listened, eyes fixed on him, not interrupting.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he continued. "But I did. And I hate that."
She finally spoke. "I wasn't angry. I was scared."
That hit harder than he expected.
"I kept thinking maybe I'd done something wrong," she said quietly. "Or maybe you'd decided I wasn't worth explaining things to."
He shook his head quickly. "Never that. This was about me, not you."
"I know," she said. "But silence makes you imagine the worst."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "I should've trusted you with the truth."
"Yes," she said simply. "You should have."
They sat there, the weight of everything pressing down on them.
"So what now?" he asked.
She took a deep breath. "Now you decide if you want to keep doing this alone… or if you want me beside you while you figure it out."
He looked at her then—really looked. At the strength in her eyes. The softness she hadn't lost, even after the hurt.
"I want you beside me," he said. "But I'm scared I'll mess it up again."
She reached out, resting her hand lightly over his. "Being scared isn't the problem. Refusing to communicate is."
Something eased in his chest.
"I can't promise I'll always get it right," he said.
"I'm not asking for perfect," she replied. "Just present."
He nodded. "I can do that."
⸻
When they stood to leave, nothing felt magically fixed. But the distance between them was smaller now. Manageable.
As they walked side by side, their hands brushed—and this time, neither pulled away.
Some stories didn't heal in one conversation.
But this one had finally turned the page.
And for the first time in days, she smiled—not because everything was okay, but because she knew they were finally moving forward.