The morning after their quiet moment in the park, Adriella woke with an unfamiliar calm. For the first time in what felt like forever, the heaviness pressing against her chest wasn't suffocating. Instead, it was softer, gentler — like a wound still healing but no longer bleeding.
Her first thought was of Daniel. The way his hand had felt wrapped around hers, warm and steady, as though anchoring her in place. She could still hear his words: "Patience isn't a burden when it's for someone who matters."
It scared her how deeply those words had settled into her bones. But it also comforted her. For once, she didn't fight the duality of fear and hope. She let them both exist side by side, as messy as they were.
Later that day, she found herself walking toward the little bookshop tucked between the café and the florist. It wasn't planned. She had been running errands, but something in her heart tugged her there — perhaps because she knew Daniel would often stop by after work.
When she stepped inside, the scent of old paper and polished wood wrapped around her like a hug. She scanned the aisles quietly, and sure enough, there he was: leaning against a shelf in the poetry section, flipping through a book, his brows furrowed in concentration.
For a moment, Adriella didn't move. She simply watched him — the way his lips curved faintly when he read something he liked, the way his fingers traced the edge of the page as though savoring it. He hadn't seen her yet, and in that hidden moment, she realized something: she wanted to stay. She wanted to keep choosing this fragile, steady presence that had already begun to change her.
She cleared her throat softly. Daniel looked up, startled, then broke into a slow, relieved smile. "You came."
Adriella shrugged, trying to hide the warmth rising in her cheeks. "Maybe I was looking for a new book."
"And maybe," he teased gently, closing the one in his hand, "you were looking for me."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved despite herself. "Don't push your luck."
They spent the next hour wandering the shelves together. He pointed out novels she had never considered; she shared the titles that had kept her company in her darkest days. At one point, Daniel pulled out a slim book of poetry and handed it to her. "Read the third one," he urged, tapping the page.
Adriella hesitated, then read aloud softly. The poem spoke of love not as fire or storm but as quiet water — steady, patient, reshaping stone over time. Her voice faltered halfway through, but Daniel finished the last lines for her, his voice deep and steady, like an echo of her own unspoken heart.
When she looked up, their eyes locked. The silence between them grew charged, alive with something fragile and electric. Adriella's breath caught, and for a second, she almost believed she could step fully into this new beginning without fear.
But reality came crashing in sooner than she expected.
That evening, as they left the shop together, Adriella noticed someone leaning against a parked car across the street. The figure straightened as they approached, and Adriella's stomach dropped.
It was Tunde.
Her ex. The man who had left her heart in pieces.
His eyes flicked from her to Daniel and back again, sharp and unreadable. A mocking smile curved his lips. "Well, well. So this is how it is now."
Adriella froze, her heart pounding. Memories assaulted her — the nights of begging for answers, the cold silence that had followed, the crushing realization that love could end so abruptly.
Daniel stepped slightly in front of her, his shoulders tense. "We don't owe you anything," he said firmly, his tone calm but edged with steel.
Tunde's gaze lingered on Adriella, ignoring Daniel. "You moved on fast. Or maybe you just needed someone to fill the emptiness, huh?"
The words sliced through her like knives. Shame, anger, and grief tangled inside her chest. She wanted to speak, to shout, to tell Tunde how wrong he was — but the words stuck in her throat.
Daniel's jaw tightened. He took Adriella's hand, holding it firmly, not as a shield but as a statement. "She doesn't need to explain herself to you. Not now, not ever."
Tunde let out a bitter laugh. "We'll see how long this one lasts." His eyes lingered on Daniel for a beat too long, then he turned and walked away, leaving a trail of poison in his wake.
Adriella's knees buckled, and she stumbled back against the wall of the bookstore. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic breaths. Daniel immediately turned to her, his grip on her hand steady.
"Hey, look at me," he said softly, cupping her cheek with his free hand. "Don't listen to him. Don't let him pull you back into that darkness."
Tears blurred her vision. "But he's right. What if I am just… broken? What if all of this is just me trying to patch the holes he left behind?"
Daniel leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers, his voice trembling but sure. "You are not broken, Adriella. You're healing. And healing doesn't make you weak — it makes you stronger than anyone gives you credit for. Don't let his bitterness rewrite your story."
Her sob broke free then, raw and unguarded. Daniel pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as she clung to him like a lifeline. His embrace wasn't desperate or possessive; it was grounding, steady, as if telling her with every heartbeat: I'm not leaving. Not like he did.
For the first time, Adriella let herself believe it.
They stood like that for a long time, the city humming around them, until her tears slowed. When she finally pulled back, her face was streaked with wetness, but her eyes held a new light — fragile, but real.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Daniel brushed a strand of hair from her face. "For what?"
"For staying. For not letting me run. For reminding me I'm… more than what he left behind."
Daniel's lips curved into the faintest smile, and though he didn't speak, his eyes told her everything: I'll keep reminding you, as long as it takes.