Reminder: In Chapter 1, I first noticed Anaya at the bus stop, and she left behind a mysterious blue notebook after disappearing. The story so far is about quiet moments, shared silences, and unspoken feelings.
I don't remember how long I stood there.
The rain had slowed to a quiet drizzle, but my hands were still shaking. The blue notebook rested against my palm, damp and fragile, like it might fall apart if I held it too tightly.
I told myself I shouldn't open it. That it wasn't mine. That some silences deserved respect.
But she had left it behind. And she had written my name into its first sentence—without ever writing my name.
I sat down on the bench where she used to sit, the cold seeping through my clothes. Carefully, I turned the page.
The handwriting was familiar. Neat, soft, slightly slanted—like her voice when she spoke.
Page after page was filled with thoughts she never said out loud.
Small observations. Fragments of feelings. Moments she noticed but never shared.
"He waits without asking questions."
"I like that he doesn't try to fix my silence."
"Some people feel safe without trying."
My chest tightened.
I had been a part of her life in ways I never realized.
Then the entries changed.
The dates grew closer together. The lines became heavier.
"I think I'm getting too attached."
"This place feels dangerous now."
"If I stay, I might want more than I can afford to lose."
I swallowed hard, afraid of what I would read next.
Near the end, the writing grew uneven—as if her hands had trembled while writing.
"I wish I could explain."
"But words have already taken too much from me."
"Leaving is easier than breaking what we have."
The last page was almost empty.
Just one sentence.
"If he ever finds this, I hope he understands that loving someone quietly doesn't mean loving them less."
I closed the notebook slowly.
The bus stop felt unbearably empty. Not because she wasn't there— but because she had been there so completely, without me ever knowing.
That night, I carried the blue notebook home. And for the first time, I wondered if love wasn't about staying— but about knowing when to let someone go.
Yet one question refused to leave me.
If she was brave enough to write all this… Why wasn't she brave enough to stay?
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To be continued...