The rain came softly that afternoon—not the fierce pounding of a storm, but a steady, gentle fall, like the sky had finally surrendered to the weight of its own sorrow.
The courtyard was nearly empty, slick with damp leaves and scattered puddles reflecting the gray sky. Students hurried past, clutching cloaks and umbrellas, but Aurelius lingered by the stone railing, rain soaking through his sleeves, curls plastered to his forehead. His heart thrummed unevenly, louder than the quiet rain.
He hadn't expected her to come. Not after everything.
Then, through the haze of rain, Desdemona appeared—calm, deliberate. No cloak, no umbrella, only the soft drip of rain darkening her hair and dampening her dress. She walked toward him with slow steps, each one measured, as if she were moving through a dream she wasn't quite ready to wake from.
She stopped a few feet away, eyes downcast, hands gripping the strap of her satchel. The silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.
Finally, she looked up—meeting his gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and courage.
His throat tightened. "Desdemona," he said quietly, voice rough from held-back emotions. "Please—can we get out of the rain? There's an empty classroom nearby."
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding, and they slipped inside, the door closing behind them with a soft click. The room was quiet, faintly smelling of old books and chalk dust. Outside, the rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes.
He turned to face her, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "I have to say this. I'm sorry. Truly sorry. For hiding who I am. For not trusting you enough to share the truth."
She watched him silently, her chest rising and falling with a fragile calm.
"I was afraid," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid that if you knew I was the author—if you saw me as the man behind the stories—it would change everything. I wanted to meet you without that... shadow over us. But I see now that keeping it secret hurt more than helped."
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her voice came soft but steady. "It wasn't just anger. It was hurt. Because I believed I was seeing you—the real you—but you were holding back. You didn't think I was enough without the stories."
He swallowed hard, his heart aching at the weight of her words. "You've always been more than just a reader to me, Desdemona. You're… you're everything I never dared hope for. I was foolish to think I could protect us both by hiding."
She stepped closer, the warmth of her presence softening the cold air between them. Her hand reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed against his.
"I wasn't angry," she whispered, voice breaking with honesty. "I was scared. Scared that the person I admired might be just a story. That you weren't real."
His lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. "I'm real. And I want to be real with you—no more secrets, no more half-truths."
They stood there, the rain a gentle rhythm against the window, a quiet backdrop to the moment.
Aurelius took a breath, steadying himself. "Will you… give me a chance? Not as the author you thought you knew, but as me. Just me."
Her eyes searched his, vulnerability and strength mingling in their depths. After a long pause, she nodded, a soft smile blooming on her lips.
"Yes," she said simply. "Let's see where this begins."
Later that night, under the flicker of candlelight, Aurelius would lift his quill once more—not to write for an audience, or a hidden name, but for her. For this new chapter that was theirs alone.
THE END.