(Ben's POV)
Ben had learned, over time, that loving Lizzy meant paying attention to what she didn't say.
He noticed it in the way she paused before answering questions, like she was checking in with herself first. In how she held her sketchbook—not defensively, but protectively, as if it mattered that it existed. In the way her laughter came more easily now, though it still surprised her when it did.
Something had shifted.
He didn't know the details. He didn't ask. Lizzy had taught him that curiosity without entitlement was a kind of respect.
They sat on the grass near the art building, the late afternoon sun warming the concrete behind them. Lizzy sketched quietly, knees pulled close to her chest. Ben leaned back on his hands, watching people pass by—friends, couples, strangers moving forward without knowing how intentional that movement was.
"You don't look like you're running anymore," he said finally.
Lizzy glanced at him. "I didn't know it showed."
"It used to," he replied gently. "Not in a dramatic way. Just… like you were always bracing."
She considered that, pencil still. "I think I was."
Ben nodded. He understood bracing. He'd done it most of his life—anticipating disappointment, softening expectations so they wouldn't hurt as much when they collapsed.
"What changed?" he asked, not pushing.
She exhaled slowly. "I stopped explaining myself to people who weren't listening."
That made sense to him.
He didn't respond right away. He knew better than to fill quiet moments just because they existed. Silence, when chosen, could be generous.
"I'm glad you stayed," Lizzy said suddenly.
He turned toward her. "Here?"
"With me," she clarified. "Not trying to fix anything. Not leaving when things got heavy."
Ben swallowed. He hadn't realized she'd noticed that choice.
"I didn't stay because I was waiting for you to be okay," he said carefully. "I stayed because I was okay with you not being okay."
Her eyes softened.
Ben thought about how easy it would have been to rush things—to define, to label, to claim something that felt fragile. He thought about how patience wasn't passive. It was active restraint. A decision made over and over again.
Loving Lizzy meant trusting her pace.
They walked back toward her building as the sky deepened into evening. Streetlights flickered on, familiar now, no longer symbols of uncertainty but markers of return.
"Sometimes I'm scared," Lizzy admitted. "That this—feeling lighter—won't last."
Ben stopped walking. Not abruptly. Just enough to anchor the moment.
"Nothing lasts forever," he said. "But that doesn't make it pointless."
She watched him closely.
"I don't need certainty," he continued. "I just need honesty. And presence. The rest we can figure out slowly."
Lizzy nodded. "Slow is good."
They stood there for a moment, not touching, not distant. Just aligned.
As Ben watched her unlock the door and disappear inside, he realized something important.
Love didn't have to arrive loudly.
Sometimes, it stayed quietly making room, holding space, choosing not to leave.
And for the first time in a long while, Ben knew exactly how he wanted to stay.