The morning sun spilled through Adriella's curtains, painting her room in gold. For the first time in what felt like forever, she woke without the heavy ache of dread pressing against her ribs. Instead, she felt warmth — steady, unfamiliar, but welcome. Daniel's arm was still around her, his breathing slow, his presence grounding.
For a while, she just lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heart, realizing how different this morning was. The ghosts of heartbreak were still there, but their voices were quieter, their claws less sharp. She felt… lighter.
When Daniel stirred, blinking sleep from his eyes, he caught her gaze and smiled. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice still husky.
Adriella felt her lips curve into a smile she didn't have to force. "Morning."
There was no rush to move, no urgency to fill the silence. Instead, they lay there, wrapped in a peace that felt both fragile and miraculous.
Later, over breakfast, Daniel burned the toast, and Adriella laughed — a deep, unrestrained laugh that startled even her. She hadn't heard that sound from herself in so long. Daniel froze, pretending to look wounded.
"Don't laugh at my culinary skills. This is a masterpiece." He held up the charred bread dramatically.
She was still laughing, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "Daniel, it's black. That's not a masterpiece — that's a crime against bread."
He grinned, delighted more at her laughter than anything else. "I'll have you know, it's a very exclusive recipe. Burnt toast à la Daniel."
She shook her head, but her chest felt warm. Light. Maybe this was what healing looked like — not just surviving grief, but rediscovering the parts of yourself you thought were lost forever.
The day unfolded like something out of a dream. They walked through the park, sharing stories and teasing each other. Daniel reached for her hand without asking, and for the first time, Adriella didn't flinch or hesitate. Instead, she laced her fingers through his, the gesture simple but monumental.
When they sat on a bench, he looked at her thoughtfully. "You're different today."
Her brow furrowed. "Different how?"
"Lighter. Like you've let go of something heavy."
She looked down at their joined hands, her throat tightening. "Maybe I finally let myself believe you."
Daniel squeezed her hand gently. "Then I'll spend every day making sure you never have to doubt it again."
But healing was never linear. That evening, as they walked back to her apartment, Adriella spotted a couple across the street — a woman leaning against a man's shoulder, laughing easily, her joy unguarded. For a split second, Adriella's chest clenched with fear. What if this doesn't last? What if Daniel leaves like Tunde did?
The thought was sharp, cutting through her joy. She slowed her steps, withdrawing into herself.
Daniel noticed instantly. "Hey," he said softly. "Where did you go just now?"
Adriella forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Nowhere. I'm fine."
Daniel didn't press. He simply squeezed her hand again, grounding her. She felt the panic ease, just a little. But the doubt lingered, whispering in the corners of her mind.
Later that night, alone in bed, she journaled about it. Why is it so hard to believe I deserve this? Why does happiness feel like a trap?
Her pen trembled as she wrote the last line: I want to trust. I just don't know how to stop being afraid.
The next day, Daniel showed up with flowers — not roses or anything grand, but a small bunch of wildflowers, messy and colorful.
"For you," he said simply.
Adriella blinked, taken aback. "Why?"
"Because yesterday, I saw your smile dim, and I never want you to forget that you deserve light, even on the days you feel dark."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry, not from sadness, but from the unbearable tenderness of it. No one had ever seen her so clearly, or cared so consistently.
She hugged him then, fiercely, burying her face against his chest. "Thank you," she whispered.
And in that embrace, she realized something important: healing wasn't about never being afraid again. It was about choosing love despite the fear. It was about allowing joy to seep in, moment by fragile moment, until it grew strong enough to quiet the doubts.
That night, as they sat on her balcony under the stars, Adriella leaned against Daniel's shoulder. "I don't know how long this will last," she admitted quietly.
Daniel turned, his lips brushing her hair. "Then let's not measure it in days or months. Let's just live it — here, now, fully."
She closed her eyes, letting the words settle deep in her bones. For once, she didn't argue. She simply let herself believe.
And as the stars shimmered above them, Adriella felt something she hadn't felt in years — not just hope, but peace.