Even though neither of them said much after that, the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like something sacred… two people sitting with their truths, not needing to explain everything just yet. Monica's fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on his arm, as if searching for the right words or maybe the courage to say them. Then she slowly leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder.
Her gaze wandered upward, soft and unfocused, like she wasn't seeing the ceiling but something far beyond it, something distant only she could see.
"I used to look at that kind of life... the picket fences, the happily ever afters, the his-and-hers... and feel nothing but disgust," she began, her voice low and steady, like she was reading from a page written long ago. "Not even fear. Just indifference. I knew early on that I wasn't made for that kind of comfort. It never tempted me.
