I didn't see him for three days.
Not because something was wrong.
Not because we fought.
But because I needed space.
Not from him from myself.
Because suddenly, I wasn't afraid of being hurt again.
I was afraid… of being happy.
Of trusting peace.
Of letting someone new hold something as delicate as my heart.
I moved through the week like someone going through a checklist.
Wake up.
Shower.
Finish client designs.
Respond to emails.
Eat something even if I didn't feel hungry.
Sleep.
Repeat.
But between those quiet hours, I kept thinking about Elijah.
Not in the way I used to think about Jayden full of anxiety, waiting for messages that never came or apologies that always arrived too late.
With Elijah, it was different.
There was no fear attached to the thought of him.
Just softness… and something that looked too much like hope.
And that was what scared me most.
By Thursday, I told myself I was being ridiculous.
Not every good thing becomes a bad memory, I whispered to my reflection.
But when you've been burned before, even the warmest light feels like a warning.
He texted me that night.
Elijah:
No pressure. Just wanted to say I hope your week's been kind to you.
So simple. So gentle.
I stared at the message for a while before answering.
Ava:
Thanks for checking in. Just needed a few quiet days. I'm okay.
Elijah:
I figured. Take all the quiet you need. I just didn't want you to feel like you had to go through it alone.
I paused.
Because that's the difference between someone who wants access to you… and someone who genuinely cares.
We met the next evening.
At a park near my place.
Not fancy. Just green, open space, a few benches, and a small walking path.
The sky looked like it had been painted with soft orange watercolors.
He was already sitting on one of the benches when I arrived.
Hands tucked into his jacket pockets, sketchpad beside him.
He stood when he saw me.
"Hey."
"Hey," I replied, unsure if I should sit close or keep a safe distance.
But then he smiled not too wide, not too soft.
Just enough to remind me that he wasn't here to take.
He was here to share something.
"You look rested," he said.
"More like emotionally reorganized."
He chuckled.
"That's still progress."
I sat beside him.
Close enough to hear his breathing, but far enough to protect whatever boundaries I hadn't defined yet.
And we just... sat.
Not filling the silence.
Just letting it be there.
And for once, the silence didn't feel like something to be scared of.
After a while, I asked him something I hadn't planned to say.
"Why are you so patient with me?"
He tilted his head a little, thinking before he answered.
"Because rushing someone who's healing is like pulling a flower before it's bloomed. You might think you're helping it grow, but really… you're only tearing it apart."
I swallowed hard.
"And what if the flower never blooms?"
"Then I still got to sit in the sun with something beautiful."
And just like that, I knew.
Elijah wasn't waiting to "win" me.
He wasn't waiting for his reward.
He was showing up because he respected the process.
Because he respected me.
I looked down at my hands, nervous for no reason.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
"Of me?" he asked gently.
"No. Of what it means if this turns into something real."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know if I'll survive another disappointment."
He was quiet for a moment, then said:
"I won't promise you no pain. No one can. But I'll never give you confusion on purpose. I'll never use your love as a convenience."
His voice didn't shake.
His eyes didn't wander.
He said it like he'd already decided how he would treat me whether I stayed or not.
And something inside me softened.
We stayed at that bench until the sky faded to navy blue.
Until the streetlights flickered on like quiet stars.
Until the fear didn't feel like a wall anymore just a shadow I could walk through if I tried.
When I stood up, he stood too.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked.
"Only if you promise not to talk too much," I teased.
"Deal," he said, offering his arm not forcefully, but like an open option.
I didn't take it.
But I walked close.
That was enough.
At my door, he paused.
"Thank you for letting me be in your quiet."
"Thank you for not filling it with noise," I replied.
And then, for the first time, I leaned in not for a kiss, not for anything romantic.
Just a brief hug.
His arms didn't squeeze tight.
They simply rested around me, warm and still, like safety had a physical form.
I didn't want to let go.
But I did.
Because he didn't need to chase me.
He was already walking beside me.
That night, I wrote in my journal:
Hope isn't a loud emotion.
It's quiet. Gentle. Like someone knocking on a door you forgot you had locked.
And when you finally open it… you realize they weren't there to break in.
They were there to remind you what peace feels like.
I wasn't falling in love.
I was rising into it.
Slowly, quietly… and finally, without fear.