Morning comes with a different weight today.
Not heavier. Not lighter.
Just… aware.
I wake up before the alarm, again. For a moment, I stay still, listening. The city outside hasn't started shouting yet. It's breathing softly, like it hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be.
My phone is on the table. Face down. Quiet.
Last night's messages ended without drama, without promises. Just words that didn't demand anything from me. That's new. I'm used to expectations—spoken or unspoken. Used to measuring myself against them.
I sit up and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my shoulders. It's there every morning, like a reminder that sleep never really reaches all parts of me.
I make tea. Same cup. Same amount of sugar. Different hands.
I don't know why, but today, even the small things feel like choices.
---
At work, the hours move strangely. Too fast and too slow at the same time. I finish my tasks, reply when spoken to, nod when needed. Somewhere between emails and meetings, my phone vibrates.
A single message.
"Are you free this evening?"
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Free.
The word feels unfamiliar.
I don't reply immediately. I stare at the screen, then at the wall, then back at the screen. My chest tightens—not with fear exactly, but with the memory of it.
Meeting people used to mean standing in lines, following rules, being watched. It used to mean someone taller, louder, deciding how small I should feel.
This is different.
I know that.
Still, my body doesn't.
I type slowly.
"Maybe. Why?"
The reply comes a minute later.
"I'm in the city for a couple of days. Thought we could meet. If you're comfortable."
There it is.
The word that changes everything.
Comfortable.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
---
All afternoon, my mind plays the same game.
What if it's awkward?
What if I freeze?
What if I say the wrong thing?
What if they see me and regret messaging at all?
I remind myself that I'm not seven anymore. Not standing in a line, waiting for permission to exist. I'm older. I'm here. I can leave if I want to.
That thought steadies me more than anything else.
At five-thirty, I type back.
"Okay. But somewhere quiet."
Three dots appear almost immediately.
"There's a small café near the old library. Not crowded. Soft music."
I nod to myself.
"Send the location."
---
By the time I leave work, the sky has softened into evening. The air feels lighter, like it's letting go of the day. I walk slower than usual, not because I'm late, but because I don't want to arrive too early.
I reach my room and change my shirt twice before settling on the first one. It feels more like me. I look in the mirror and pause, noticing how my shoulders tense, how my jaw tightens.
"It's just coffee," I mutter.
But it isn't.
Not really.
---
The café is exactly as described. Small. Dim lights. A few tables occupied by people who look like they came to be left alone. I step inside and feel my heartbeat pick up—not racing, just aware.
I scan the room instinctively, the way I always do.
Then I see them.
Sitting near the window. Back straight, hands around a cup, eyes focused on nothing in particular. They look… normal. Not intimidating. Not loud. Just someone waiting.
They look up.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then they smile.
Not wide.
Not forced.
Just enough.
I walk over, my steps careful but steady.
"Hi," they say.
"Hi," I reply.
We stand there awkwardly for a moment, like two people unsure which memory to acknowledge first. Then they gesture to the chair.
"Sit," they say softly.
I do.
---
Up close, details emerge. A faint scar near the eyebrow. Tired eyes. Familiar tired. The kind that doesn't come from lack of sleep but from carrying things too long.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," they admit.
"I wasn't sure either," I say.
We both smile at that. A small, shared understanding.
A waiter comes by. We order without really looking at the menu. Coffee for both. Simple.
There's a silence then. Not the dangerous kind. Not the one that presses down. Just space.
"I'm glad you came," they say finally.
I nod. "Me too. I think."
They laugh quietly. "Fair."
---
We talk carefully at first. About neutral things. Work. The city. How much it's changed. Words move slowly between us, testing the ground. No one interrupts. No one dominates the space.
At some point, they say my name.
Correctly.
It catches me off guard.
I look up. They notice.
"Sorry," they say. "Is that okay?"
"Yes," I say, a little too quickly. Then softer, "It's okay."
They nod, like they understand something deeper than the words.
---
Eventually, the conversation drifts. Naturally. Toward the past.
"I used to see you in the corridor near the science lab," they say. "Always near the window."
I stir my coffee, watching the liquid move. "I liked the light there."
"I know," they reply. "You looked calmer."
I don't say that calm was just another kind of hiding.
Instead, I ask, "Why didn't you say anything back then?"
They look down at their cup. "I wanted to. More times than I can count. But I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of becoming a target. Of making it worse for you. Of not knowing how to help."
Their honesty lands quietly between us.
"I was scared too," I say. "All the time."
They look at me then. Really look. No pity. No curiosity. Just recognition.
---
The café fills a little as time passes. We stay where we are. At some point, they ask, "Do you still think about it?"
I consider lying. The old habit rises easily.
Then I don't.
"Yes," I say. "More than I want to."
They nod. "Me too. Not the same way. But it stays."
We sit with that.
I notice my hands aren't shaking. That's new.
---
When we leave the café, the sky is dark but clear. Streetlights cast long shadows. We walk side by side, not too close, not too far.
"Can I walk you back?" they ask.
"I'm okay," I say. Then pause. "But you can."
They smile.
---
The road is quiet. Our footsteps match without trying.
"Do you ever feel like you grew up too early?" they ask.
"All the time," I reply. "And still feel behind."
They hum in agreement.
"I think," they say slowly, "some of us learned how to survive before we learned how to live."
The words settle deep.
---
Near my building, we stop.
"This was nice," they say. "No pressure. No expectations."
"Yes," I say. "It was."
There's a moment then. One that could become something or nothing.
"I don't know what this is," they add. "And I don't want to force it."
I nod. "Neither do I."
They hesitate. "But I'd like to meet again. If you want."
I look at them. At the person who noticed me once, and again, without trying to change me.
"I'd like that," I say.
Their smile is brighter this time.
---
Back in my room, I sit on the bed and breathe. My phone rests beside me. No new messages. No rush.
I replay the evening—not to judge it, not to analyze every word—but to let it exist.
For once, the silence between my heartbeats feels calm.
Not empty.
Not tense.
Just present.
---
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Same cracks. Same paint. But the room feels different tonight. Less closed. Less guarded.
I think about how many years I spent believing silence was my only safety. How I built walls so carefully that even I forgot how to open them.
Tonight, one wall has a door.
It isn't wide open.
It doesn't need to be.
It's enough that it exists.
---
Before sleeping, I pick up my phone and type a single message.
"I got home safe."
A reply comes almost immediately.
"Glad. Sleep well."
I smile.
---
Sleep comes gently this time. No corridors. No locked doors. Just darkness that doesn't press down.
---
In the morning, I wake up to sunlight on my face. For once, my chest doesn't feel tight. I stretch and sit up, breathing slowly.
Outside, the city begins again.
And inside me, something has learned a new rhythm.
Not loud.
Not fast.
Just steady.
End of Chapter 4