Chapter 13 — The Space Between Two Breaths
Mara had begun to measure her days differently.
Before Milo, time was something she endured — a long hallway she walked alone, counting steps so she wouldn't notice how empty it was. Now the hours had texture. They had his voice in them, his shy laughter, the way he looked at her like she was not a broken thing but a mystery worth learning slowly.
That scared her more than loneliness ever had.
They met again near the small bookstore by the tram line — the one that smelled of old paper and cinnamon from the café next door. Milo arrived first, pretending to study the window display while rehearsing a hundred things he wanted to say and forgetting all of them the second he saw her.
"You came," he said, as if she were a miracle and not a girl with tired eyes and a borrowed coat.
"I said I would," Mara replied, trying to sound casual, trying not to let him hear how carefully she had chosen her clothes, how many times she had brushed her hair like courage could be combed into place.
They walked inside together. The bell above the door sang a small silver song.
Between the shelves, their shoulders brushed. Once. Twice. Accidents that didn't feel like accidents at all.
Milo picked up a book without reading the title.
"Do you believe people meet for a reason?"
Mara pretended to study a row of poetry.
"I believe people meet," she said slowly. "The reason part is what hurts."
He looked at her then — really looked — and saw the guarded girl behind the careful sentences.
"Who hurt you?" he asked before he could stop himself.
The question landed softly but deeply, like a stone dropped into still water. Mara felt the ripples move through her chest. She wanted to joke, to deflect, to become R. again — the girl made of replies instead of memories.
But Milo was standing too close for lies.
"Many people," she whispered. "And no one in particular."
He didn't push. That was the thing about him — he never forced doors. He waited for them to open from the inside.
They sat by the window with two cups of tea neither needed. Outside, the city hurried past, unaware that something fragile was unfolding in a corner chair.
Milo watched her trace the rim of her cup.
"You don't have to tell me everything," he said. "Just don't disappear when the past gets loud."
Mara's fingers stilled.
No one had ever asked her to stay before. People asked for smiles, for patience, for favors — never for her presence, raw and imperfect.
"I'm not good at staying," she admitted.
"I'm not good at being left," he answered, just as honestly.
Their truths met in the middle of the small table, trembling.
For a moment neither spoke. The world narrowed to the space between two breaths, to the almost‑touch of hands, to the understanding that something irreversible was happening.
Milo reached across — slowly, giving her time to refuse — and covered her hand with his.
This time she didn't flinch.
Outside, a tram rattled by. Inside, Mara felt a wall inside her shift for the first time in years.
Not fall.
Just move.
And sometimes that is how love begins — not with fireworks, but with a quiet decision to remain when leaving would be easier.