No one told her that silence could feel this loud.
It pressed against her eardrums like static—unspoken thoughts, unsaid names, the weight of things left hanging in the air. Mira stood by the window in his apartment, watching cars stream past below like nothing had changed. People still honked, headlights blinked, life moved on. But inside this room, something had shifted. It was subtle. But it was enough.
Her fingers lightly grazed the edge of the windowsill, cold beneath her touch. She didn't know what she was waiting for—maybe for him to speak, maybe for herself to figure out what the hell she even wanted to say.
The door clicked behind her.
"You're up early," he said, voice low, still rough from sleep.
She didn't turn around. Just nodded.
Noah crossed the room slowly, barefoot steps quiet on the hardwood. She could feel his presence near her back—close, but not touching. It made her skin burn anyway.
"Couldn't sleep," she murmured.
He didn't answer at first. The silence wasn't awkward. It just... was.
Then his voice came, quieter than before. "Is it about last night?"
She finally turned to face him.
His hair was still messy, shirt wrinkled, eyes unsure. It struck her, suddenly, how familiar he looked in this state. Not like the polished version of him others saw. But this—raw and unfinished. Real.
Mira hesitated. "I don't know what last night even was."
A beat. "Yeah. Me neither."
And wasn't that the problem? Whatever had happened between them—it wasn't nothing. The way his hands had found her waist, the way their mouths had collided like it was inevitable. The pause right after, filled with unspoken questions neither of them had been brave enough to ask.
She let out a slow breath, turning her gaze back out the window. "Do you regret it?"
His pause was longer this time.
"No," he said simply.
Her stomach flipped.
He stepped beside her now, arms crossed over his chest, leaning on the windowsill. "Do you?"
She didn't answer. Not because she didn't have one—but because it was complicated. Too many thoughts tangled up in her chest.
Noah shifted, running a hand through his hair. "Mira, if this—if us—if it messes things up, just say it. I can take it."
That made her flinch.
Not because of what he said, but because of how easy he made it sound. Like it was a choice they could make neatly. Like it wouldn't destroy something either way.
"You think it's that simple?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He met her eyes then. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't look away.
"No," he said. "But maybe it's worth figuring out. Even if it's messy."
And there it was. The thing she'd been avoiding—the terrifying possibility that this thing between them might be worth the risk. Might be more than a moment of weakness, more than a mistake.
She blinked, slowly. "What if it ruins everything?"
"What if it doesn't?"
Silence again.
But this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.
---
Later that day, they ended up in the kitchen, dancing around each other in that quiet, domestic way people do when they're unsure how to act. He made coffee. She burned toast. He teased her. She threatened to throw the bread at him.
It felt... normal. And somehow that scared her even more.
He leaned against the counter, sipping from his mug. "You really suck at toast."
"Yeah, well, you suck at being subtle."
He grinned.
She tried not to smile back, but it slipped through anyway. Just a flicker.
His eyes softened. "I'm not gonna push you."
"I know."
"But I'm not pretending it didn't happen either."
Her hands stilled on the counter. "Okay."
He set his mug down. The clink echoed in the space between them.
"I like you, Mira."
She froze.
It wasn't a declaration. Wasn't a plea. Just three words, laid out gently like something fragile.
She turned to face him.
"I don't know what to do with that, Noah."
He shrugged. "You don't have to do anything. Just... know it."
She exhaled, feeling a weird pressure ease inside her chest.
Maybe that was enough for now.
---
That night, she didn't sleep on the couch.
Not because anything happened again. Not like before.
But because they ended up watching something dumb on TV, and she fell asleep against his shoulder without meaning to. And he didn't move. Didn't say a word.
When she woke up, his arm was around her. Loose, easy.
And she didn't pull away.
She didn't expect him to follow her. Not after the way she walked away from him like that.
But there he was—ten minutes later—standing by the doorway of the campus café like he'd just walked through a storm. Jacket half-zipped, hair slightly messy, breath uneven like he'd been debating the entire walk here.
She tried not to look. Focused on stirring her half-cold drink instead, like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
"Hey," his voice finally cut through the low hum of the place.
Ava didn't look up. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know." He took a step closer. Then stopped. "But I had to."
Silence. The kind that didn't know if it wanted to lean toward relief or resentment. Ava finally looked up, and the second she did, her throat tightened.
His eyes… weren't angry. Just tired. Like something was gnawing at him from the inside.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She blinked. Once. Twice. "…For what?"
"For freezing. Back there. For not knowing how to handle it. For making you feel like you had to walk away."
The weight in her chest shifted—heavier now. Because yeah, she hadn't exactly handled it well either. But she'd been vulnerable. Raw. And he… had recoiled like she was a fire.
"You don't get to just... say sorry like it fixes everything," she muttered.
"I know. I'm not trying to fix everything in one night," he said, stepping closer until they were at the same table but not yet touching. "I just want to stop screwing things up. Starting with this."
She stared at the little crack on the edge of her cup. It was easier than looking at his face. "You said it wasn't a good idea. You and me."
"I said that because I was scared," he admitted. "Not because it wasn't true."
Ava gave a hollow laugh. "You're still scared."
"Yeah. But I'm more scared of not doing anything. Of letting you go and regretting it every damn day after."
Her stomach twisted. Not in the sweet butterflies kind of way—but in the way that happens when two parts of you want completely opposite things.
"I don't want to be something you regret losing," she said, voice low. "I want to be something you're sure about. Someone you fight for."
"I'm trying to be that guy," he said quietly.
She finally met his eyes. "Then stop running from the parts of me that scare you."
That landed. He didn't flinch—but he looked away for a second. Swallowed. Nodded once, slow and deep.
"I want to try again," he said. "From where we left off. But… better. No pushing you away when it gets messy."
She raised an eyebrow. "So we're pretending we didn't blow up like a badly written drama twenty-four hours ago?"
"No," he said. "We're acknowledging it. But also not letting it be the ending."
Her lips twitched, unwillingly. Damn him for saying things like that. For knowing how to find the one thread that still hadn't snapped inside her.
"Okay," she said softly, setting her cup down. "Try again. But this time, don't just say the right words. Show me."
He nodded. "Fair."
She exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. But the war inside her wasn't over. It just had a temporary ceasefire.
---
The next few days were weird.
Not in a bad way. But in a what-do-we-do-now kind of way.
They didn't call it dating. Didn't label it. But something unspoken had shifted.
He started walking her to her classes again. Not every day—just enough to make her notice. He waited outside the lecture halls with that quiet patience he had. The one that didn't ask for attention but somehow always pulled hers.
And she… let him in again. Slowly. Carefully. Like testing the water after a near-drowning.
One afternoon, they ended up on the rooftop of the library. It wasn't planned—just one of those random detours that became something else.
It was cold. But the sky was clear, and they sat in silence, watching clouds blur into pink and orange.
"You always come here?" he asked.
"Sometimes," she said. "When I want to think. Or not think."
He looked at her then. That kind of look people give when they're trying to memorize you in quiet.
"You look different," he murmured.
"How?"
"I don't know. Like… lighter. Like you're not holding everything in your chest anymore."
She didn't respond right away. Just tugged her sleeves over her hands and stared at the sky.
"I'm tired of hiding parts of myself," she said eventually. "I used to think vulnerability was weakness. But maybe… maybe it's just honesty with bad timing."
He chuckled, and for once it wasn't bitter. "Yeah. I've had a lot of that."
A gust of wind brushed past, and he instinctively shifted closer. Close enough that their shoulders touched. It wasn't calculated. Wasn't romantic, even. Just… human.
"Did it scare you?" she asked suddenly. "What I told you that night?"
He paused. "Yeah. But not for the reason you think."
"Then what?"
"Because I could see myself falling into you. Completely. And that kind of thing… it changes everything."
She didn't answer. Just leaned back on her palms and let the silence stretch between them like a shared blanket.
Sometimes, love wasn't about loud declarations. It wasn't about kisses in the rain or shouting in airports.
Sometimes it was just… sitting beside someone who made you feel a little less alone under a wide, indifferent sky.