The first time Issa laughed without hesitation, she startled herself.
They were in the kitchen, late evening light casting soft shadows across the counters. Max was trying—and failing—to follow a recipe, muttering under his breath as smoke began to rise from the pan.
"You're burning it," Issa said, laughing.
"I'm adjusting it," he replied, waving a towel dramatically.
She stepped in, turned off the stove, and shook her head. "You can't improvise with onions."
"Yes, you can," he said. "I believe in creative freedom."
She laughed again, freely this time, and something in her chest loosened.
This—this was what staying felt like.
---
Their relationship rebuilt itself quietly.
No grand gestures. No sweeping promises.
Max showed up early. He followed through. When doubts surfaced, he didn't retreat—he named them.
"I'm afraid of messing this up," he admitted one night.
Issa didn't flinch. "Then talk to me when you feel that way."
"I will," he said. And he did.
She noticed how careful he was with her trust—not walking on eggshells, but treating it like something valuable. Something earned.
---
One evening, they returned to the old high school football field—the place where they'd once sat years ago, pretending not to feel everything.
The bleachers were empty now.
"I used to think this was where everything went wrong," Max said, staring out at the field. "Now I think it's just where we didn't know better yet."
Issa nodded. "We were kids. We loved like kids."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now we love like people who learned," she said.
He turned to her. "I'm proud of who you became—even without me."
That mattered more than any apology.
---
They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, not needing to fill the silence.
"I love you," Max said finally.
Issa looked at him—really looked. There was no fear in her answer this time.
"I love you too," she said. "And I'm not afraid that loving you means losing myself."
He reached for her hand. "I'll spend my life making sure you never do."
She believed him—not because the words were perfect, but because the actions already were.
---
Later that night, Issa packed away the notebooks—every letter, every ache, every version of herself that had loved quietly and waited patiently.
She didn't throw them away.
She honored them.
They had carried her here.
---
As Max fell asleep beside her, Issa stared at the ceiling, heart steady.
Love hadn't saved her.
She had saved herself.
Love had simply met her there—and chosen to stay.