The next time Nayla stayed over at Raka's apartment, something felt different.
It wasn't the way he greeted her at the door, or the way he cooked her favorite noodles without asking. It was the space—the invisible one—between them. Not distant, not strained. Just… waiting.
Waiting for something to be said.
They ate in front of the TV, a low-budget action movie playing as background noise. Raka laughed at all the wrong scenes, and Nayla chuckled just because he did. But the weight in her chest didn't leave.
Later, when the movie ended and the room dimmed into quiet again, Nayla sat cross-legged on the couch, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.
"Raka," she said softly, almost unsure she wanted to break the moment.
He looked at her. "Yeah?"
"There's something I haven't told you."
He didn't flinch. Didn't push.
"Okay," he said, settling beside her. "Take your time."
She stared at her hands. "After Dito and I broke up, I didn't date for a long time. Not because I didn't want to—but because I felt like I lost my voice in that relationship. I became... small. I let myself disappear."
Raka reached out, covering her hand with his. But he said nothing.
"I promised myself that if I ever tried again, it would be with someone who didn't need me to be louder or different. Just someone who would listen."
She took a shaky breath.
"And then you showed up."
He still didn't speak.
"And for the first few weeks, I thought you'd leave. That one day I'd say the wrong thing or not say enough, and you'd decide I wasn't worth the effort."
His jaw clenched subtly, but his grip on her hand never loosened.
"But you stayed. Even when I was slow. Even when I was distant. You didn't just wait you waited without resentment."
Finally, she looked up.
"I need you to know," she said, voice trembling, "that I see that. I see you. And I love you, not just because you're kind, or patient, or good to me. But because you never tried to fix me. You just stayed long enough for me to realize I wasn't broken."
Raka's eyes were glassy now, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to memorize her face, every word she'd just spoken.
"Nayla," he said, voice rough, "I love you for exactly who you are. Not who you could become. Not who anyone else expected. Just you. Always you."
She leaned forward and buried her face in his shoulder.
"I don't say things easily," she mumbled.
"I know."
"But when I do…"
"They matter," he finished.
They stayed like that, wrapped in silence, not the kind born from fear, but the kind that only exists when two people finally say everything they were afraid to.
That night, she didn't dream about disappearing.
She dreamed about roots.
About staying.
About a future where her voice, even in its softness, would always be heard.