Reminder:
In Chapter 2, I discovered the pages Anaya never meant for me to read. Her blue notebook revealed feelings she was too afraid to say out loud — and a fear of staying when love started to feel real. She left without goodbye… but not without a reason.
For a moment, I convinced myself that the story had already ended.
That some people are meant to pass through your life quietly— leaving behind nothing but echoes and unanswered questions.
So I didn't go to the bus stop the next morning.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I was afraid that if I sat there alone,
it would finally feel real—
that she was gone.
The blue notebook lay on my desk, dried now but slightly warped from the rain. The pages had curled at the edges, like they were trying to fold into themselves.
Like her.
I told myself I should let it end there.
Some stories aren't meant to continue.
But there was something that wouldn't sit right in my chest.
She had written about leaving.
About attachment.
About fear.
But not once did she write about regret.
And that scared me more than anything.
Three days later, I went back.
Same cracked bench. Same faded signboard. Same restless road.
But something was different.
I noticed it only because I had started noticing things the way she used to.
On the side of the bench, carved faintly into the old wood, were letters I had never paid attention to before.
A + ?
The carving wasn't fresh. It was old. Almost erased by time.
My breath caught.
Anaya.
Had she been coming here long before I arrived?
Was I just a chapter in a story that had already begun?
I sat down slowly, running my fingers over the carved letter.
And that's when I heard it.
"You're sitting in her place."
The voice was gentle, older.
I turned to see an elderly tea seller from across the road. I had seen him before but never spoken to him.
"She used to sit there even before you started coming," he said. "Always with that notebook."
My pulse quickened.
"You knew her?"
He nodded slowly.
"She came here for almost a year."
A year.
The word hit me harder than it should have.
"She was waiting," he continued.
"For what?" I asked.
He looked at me in a way that felt too knowing.
"For courage."
The world seemed to quiet around us.
"She used to ask strange questions," he said with a faint smile. "Like… do people ever stay when things get difficult? Or do they only stay when it's easy?"
I felt something twist inside me.
"She stopped asking those questions after you came."
I swallowed.
"Did she say where she went?"
The old man shook his head.
"No. But the last day she was here… she cried."
That didn't fit.
Anaya didn't seem like someone who cried in public.
"She left something with me," he added.
My heart stopped.
From inside his small wooden stall, he pulled out a folded piece of paper—carefully preserved in plastic.
"She told me to give this to you… if you kept coming back."
My hands felt cold as I took it.
She had expected me to return.
Which meant she never truly wanted to disappear.
I unfolded the paper slowly.
Her handwriting.
Soft. Slightly slanted.
"I wanted to see if he would stay even when I leave first."
The words blurred for a second.
"I've spent too much of my life watching people walk away once things became complicated."
"If he comes back to the bus stop after reading the notebook, maybe I'll believe that not everyone leaves."
There was one last line at the bottom.
"Tomorrow. 6:30 PM. If he chooses to stay."
The date.
It was today.
My heart began to race.
I looked up at the sky.
6:12 PM.
The road felt different now. Louder. Closer.
For the first time, I wasn't waiting for a bus.
I was waiting for a choice.
The minutes stretched painfully.
6:21.
6:27.
Every passing second felt like a test.
At 6:29, I almost stood up.
Maybe this was her way of ending it gently.
Maybe she needed proof that didn't exist.
Then—
I heard footsteps behind me.
Soft. Familiar.
I didn't turn immediately.
Because some moments are too fragile to rush.
A shadow fell across the bench.
And then—
"Did you stay?" she asked quietly.
I smiled without looking at her.
"I never left."
Silence.
But this time, it wasn't heavy.
It felt like something beginning.
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To be continued…