Rain drizzled softly against the windows of Nayla's apartment, painting streaks across the glass like nature's quiet handwriting.
It was one of those days where the world felt slow. Time moved like syrup. And Nayla, for once, didn't mind.
She was sitting on the floor of her living room, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through old journals. Pages filled with half-written poems, one word entries, and thoughts she never shared. Traces of a younger version of herself. Someone more guarded. More afraid.
And somehow, still… familiar.
She didn't hear Raka enter at first. He had a spare key now, something she'd given him without ceremony, one sleepy morning after he helped her fix her leaky sink.
He stepped inside quietly, holding a bag of her favorite takeout and a bottle of iced tea.
"Storm weather," he said, holding it up.
She looked up at him and smiled.
He noticed the journal on her lap. "Nayla archives?"
"More like Nayla autopsies," she said dryly.
He sat beside her, crossing his legs. "Reading old thoughts can be brutal."
"Some of it's ugly," she admitted. "Some of it's lonely."
He didn't say anything at first. Just reached out and took her hand.
"Do you regret any of it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. It's just strange to see how far I was from who I am now."
"You're still her, though. Just… softer. Less scared."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"I used to build walls before people could even knock," she said. "Now I still build them, but you wait outside. No hammer. No battering ram. Just… you. Waiting."
He smiled. "I figured you'd open them eventually."
"I don't even remember when I did."
"That's because it wasn't one big moment," he said. "It was a hundred quiet ones. A little wider each time. A crack in the corner. A door left ajar."
She looked at him, tears swimming but not falling.
"I love you," she said.
It wasn't the first time she'd said it.
But this time, it felt different.
Not like a confession.
Like a confirmation.
Raka kissed the back of her hand, then leaned his forehead against hers. "I love you more than any moment can hold."
She laughed, and a tear slipped out anyway.
They sat there on the floor, eating noodles straight from the container, flipping through memories and pages and pieces of who she had been.
He asked if he could read one.
She let him.
He chose a page dated two years before they met. It simply said:
"I wonder if I'll ever find someone who understands my silences."
He read it out loud and looked at her.
"You did," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," he replied. "And your silence never scared me."
Her walls didn't crumble dramatically. They feel like leaves, quiet, natural, inevitable.
And all that was left behind was her.
Open.
Still soft.
Still quiet.
But no longer afraid of being fully seen.