arindalee

In the quiet of that moment, rain tapping against the window like a thousand whispered secrets, our souls collided. His words hung in the air, heavy with both solace and sorrow.

“If you're having a hard time, you can run,” he said, voice a fragile thread connecting us.

I met his gaze, my lips curving into a bittersweet smile. “Sorry,” I murmured, the word a fragile bridge between us. How could I explain that sometimes apologies held more weight than explanations?

His surprise was palpable, etched in the lines of his face. “Why are you smiling?” he asked, eyes searching mine. They were glassy, reflecting memories and unspoken longing. But I couldn't let the tears spill—not now.

“It's better than crying,” I replied, my voice barely audible. I clung to that fragile truth, the belief that strength lay in defiance. Perhaps my smile was a rebellion against the ache threatening to consume me.

He scoffed, frustration etching his features. “Cry if you want to cry, not smile. Are you stupid?” His words were sharp, a blade slicing through my fragile armor. But I understood—he wanted me to feel, to unravel in his arms.