Love, Issa discovered, felt different when it wasn't built on longing.
It was quieter—but fuller. Less dramatic, more deliberate. It didn't ask her to guess or wait or hope someone might choose her tomorrow. It showed up, consistently, in the present.
Max proved it in small ways first.
He texted when he said he would. He asked before assuming. He listened—not with the intent to respond, but to understand. When Issa talked about her work, her doubts, the parts of herself she used to tuck away, he didn't interrupt or minimize them.
He made space.
One evening, they cooked dinner together in her apartment, music playing low in the background. Max stood at the counter chopping vegetables with exaggerated seriousness.
"You're concentrating like this is a life-or-death situation," Issa teased.
He glanced at her. "I'm trying not to mess up. I care."
The simplicity of the statement caught her off guard.
She stepped closer. "You don't have to be perfect."
"I know," he said. "I just want to be present."
Her chest warmed at that.
They talked about the past—not to reopen wounds, but to understand them.
"I didn't know how much you carried," Max admitted one night as they sat curled on the couch. "You never asked for anything."
"I didn't think I was allowed to," Issa said honestly.
He shook his head. "You should have been."
She rested her head against his shoulder. "I am now."
There was no bitterness in her voice. Only truth.
---
Being with Max now didn't feel like reclaiming something lost.
It felt like meeting someone new—someone shaped by mistakes, reflection, and time.
When they argued, it wasn't explosive. It was careful. They paused when emotions rose too high. They came back to the conversation instead of walking away.
One night, after a misunderstanding that left the room quiet and tense, Max reached for her hand.
"I don't want to win," he said. "I want to understand."
Issa squeezed his fingers. "That's new for me."
"Me too," he admitted.
They smiled, tension dissolving.
Later, lying beside each other in the dark, Issa stared at the ceiling, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I used to write letters because I was afraid to speak," she said softly.
"And now?" Max asked.
"Now I say things even when my voice shakes."
He turned toward her. "I'll stay for all of it."
She believed him—not because he promised forever, but because he showed up today.
The notebook stayed on the shelf.
Not forgotten.
Not erased.
Just no longer necessary.
Issa had learned that love didn't have to be proven through pain. It could be built through honesty, patience, and choice.
And as she drifted toward sleep, hand still in Max's, she realized something quietly extraordinary:
She wasn't afraid of losing him.
Because she no longer felt like losing herself.