I never thought I'd start over like this.
A few months ago, my world made sense. I had someone — a boyfriend, a routine, a version of love I thought was stable, solid. The kind you let wrap around your life like a warm coat in winter. But it didn't last. It ended — quietly, completely — just before I stepped into this new job. One day I was certain of who I was with and where I was going… and the next, I was standing alone in a life that no longer looked familiar.
So here I am.Heart freshly broken.Pretending to be fine while the world keeps spinning without asking if I'm ready to catch up.
My name is Arya — though some people call me Eira, depending on how well they know me. I don't like explaining it. Both names belong to me, but only one of them feels like home. Arya is who I am in the daylight — quiet, capable, careful. Eira... well, she's the part of me I try not to let show. The softer part. The dangerous one. The part that still believes in love stories.
The job itself isn't difficult. Just not what I pictured for myself. Most days, I help with deliveries — always moving, always in transit, barely stopping long enough to breathe. I don't drive, not yet. So my father is the one behind the wheel, and I ride alongside him, helping with routes and unpacking, handling things once we arrive. We've fallen into a quiet rhythm, and in a way, it makes things easier. Safe. Familiar.
Every morning begins the same way, in a nondescript store that most people wouldn't look at twice. It's not glamorous. But it's where everything begins. Where the orders are sorted. Where we start our day before heading out.
There's a rhythm to it — arrive, prep, leave.Most people keep to themselves.I don't mind. I'm not here to make friends. Not yet.
I just want the days to pass quietly.
Weeks slip by. Then months.Three, to be exact.
And somewhere between one quiet shift and the next, the pain softens.Not gone. Just… dulled. Like a bruise that's lost its color but still aches if pressed too hard.
It becomes easy to believe this is all life is for now — predictable, emotionless, still.
Until one morning… everything shifts.
He walks in.
I don't know who he is. He doesn't belong to the usual faces I've grown used to ignoring. There's something distinctly new about him — not just in the unfamiliarity of his features, but in the way the air itself seems to pause around his arrival.
He moves with a kind of quiet confidence. Doesn't try to make himself known, but somehow you notice him anyway. Calm. Unbothered. Like he's not here to impress anyone — just to do what he came to do.
But none of that is what stops me.
It's his eyes.
He looks up just as I do.And for one long, startling second, we lock eyes.
There's no greeting. No smile. No nod.Just that — a look.Still. Focused. Curious, maybe. Or maybe I imagined that.
Then he walks past me without a word, disappearing into the back like he already belongs there. Like this place has been waiting for him.And I… I just stand there, heart doing something strange in my chest.
Something stirs. Unexpected. Uninvited.And yet — unmistakably there.
I don't know his name.He doesn't know mine.We don't speak.
But the next day, I find myself hoping I'll see him again.Not because I like him — not yet. That would be ridiculous.But because there's something about him. Something quiet. Mysterious.Maybe even shy.
He's quiet, like me. Doesn't make small talk. Doesn't try to charm anyone.But there's something about him — something unreadable.
A stillness.An intensity.A way of existing like he knows how to disappear into the background yet somehow draws your attention without even trying.
He has this perfect beard — neat, sharp, dark. It suits him. Frames the quiet strength in his face. It's the kind of detail you wouldn't usually dwell on… unless, of course, you've already started looking.
And I had.
I don't tell anyone.Not that I've noticed him.Not that I find myself moving just a little slower in the mornings now, taking my time with the routine — anything to be there a little longer. Just in case.
He never talks to me.Doesn't even look at me that often.
But every now and then… there's a flicker.A glance.Quick. Barely there.But real.
And when it happens, when I catch him looking, even for the briefest second before he turns away — I feel it. That strange little flutter. That something.
Still no words.Still no names.
Until one day, I hear someone say it.
Just a casual call across the warehouse floor — nothing important. But the sound of it freezes something in me.
"Ezra."
The name lands softly.But it hits hard.
It fits him. Too well.Strong, smooth. A name you don't forget once you've heard it.
And for some inexplicable reason… I love it.Too much for someone I've never spoken to.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
We've never talked.We haven't shared so much as a greeting.But I've memorized the way he moves.The quiet weight of his presence.The rare, fleeting glances that say everything and nothing all at once.
It's not a crush. Not exactly.It's a slow unraveling.A story that hasn't started yet — but already holds me in its grip.
And I think… maybe he feels it too.Or maybe I'm just imagining it all.
Either way, I keep showing up.And maybe, just maybe…So does he.