The morning light crept through the blinds in quiet strips, landing on the mess of blankets tangled around my legs. I didn't remember falling asleep. I didn't remember much of anything after the panel...after the way D.K.'s eyes hadn't quite met mine, and Kaia's laughter had felt like it came with a price tag.
I rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer an answer. It didn't.
My phone blinked with a message, but I ignored it. The silence in the room felt more honest than anything words could offer me right now.
I picked up my journal from the floor where I must have dropped it, the spine cracked slightly from use. Flipping to last night's page, I found the circled name again: D.K. My handwriting looked desperate. Heavy. The kind of ink pressed too hard into the page, like I'd been trying to carve a truth into something that wouldn't lie back.
I traced the circle with my fingertip. He was both wound and salve. Ghost and tether.
When I stood, my body resisted. Muscles tight, head heavy. I made my way to the kitchen and brewed coffee. The bitterness landed wrong in my mouth. It tasted like a memory I didn't want to keep.
I skipped the walk. Instead, I opened the curtains and sat on the windowsill, staring down at the street as the city stretched itself awake.
There was a time not long ago when I loved the early hours. When silence felt like belonging.
Now it felt like aftermath.
A knock on my door startled me. It was Amina, holding a thermos and a paper bag.
"I brought soup," she said, not asking for permission as she walked in.
"You always bring soup."
"And you always need it." She raised an eyebrow. "Panel drama?"
I sank onto the couch and nodded.
"Kaia was... calculated."
"She always is," Amina said, handing me the thermos. "She's the kind of person who plays with narratives like fire, just to see who gets burned."
"She smiled like she owned him," I whispered.
"She used to," Amina replied, settling beside me. "But ownership isn't the same as love."
I turned to her. "Is it so wrong to want someone to choose me, plainly?"
"No," she said, her voice gentle. "But don't confuse being seen with being chosen. Sometimes people look at you just to see themselves reflected better."
The words hit deeper than I wanted to admit.
After she left, I found the message.
A voice note.
From D.K.
I stared at the waveform for a long time before pressing play.
"Hey," his voice came, rough and low, like he'd recorded it at night. "I don't know what to say. I watched you walk away and didn't follow. And I'm sorry for that. I'm not good at... this. At choosing. At letting people down.
Kaia... she has a history with me that's complicated. She knows how to spin stories and guilt and nostalgia into something that sounds like truth. But you...
You never asked me to be anyone but myself. And maybe that's why I was afraid.
I miss your silence. It never hurt.
I hope you're writing today.
Anyway... I'm here. I don't know what that means, but... I'm here."
I listened to it twice.
Then I put the phone down.
And I didn't respond.
Instead, I dressed slowly, pulled on my coat, and walked to the park where I used to meet him in the early days,when we read to each other, traded poems like secrets.
The air was cool, a little damp from the morning mist. I found a bench near the edge, away from the usual path, and opened my notebook.
The words came slow at first, then steady.
A girl, maybe sixteen, sat on the next bench over. She leaned forward, watching me write. After a while, she asked, "Are you a poet?"
I looked up and smiled. "Some days."
"What are you writing?"
"Something I needed to hear."
She nodded like she understood, even if she didn't.
That was when I noticed him. A man with a camera slung over his shoulder, messy curls barely tamed, hands in his pockets. He paused near the fountain and lifted his lens...not at me, but at the light hitting the surface of the water.
He moved closer, then stopped near my bench.
"Sorry," he said, voice warm. "Didn't mean to hover. Just noticed how you hold your pen. It's graceful. Like you're dancing with the page."
I blinked. "That's... an unexpected observation."
He smiled. "Elian," he said, offering a hand.
I hesitated, then shook it. "Nice to meet you."
He didn't ask what I was writing.
Didn't ask my name.
He just nodded and sat nearby, opening his sketchpad instead of his camera. I glanced sideways and saw soft pencil strokes...trees, benches, moments.
We sat like that a while. Sharing space. Saying nothing. Letting the city breathe around us.
Later, when I walked home, I wrote a new poem in my head. About the way silence could stretch itself into shape. About not answering every message. About being your own echo when everyone else forgets your name.
That night, I titled the entry:
The Shape of the Silence Left Behind.
And I ended it with a line I hadn't known I needed:
Some silences you keep. Some, you outgrow.