I keep my eyes on the road.
The city slides past in muted streaks of light—signals, shopfronts, streetlamps. Nothing about it asks for attention. I know these roads by habit. My hands stay steady on the steering wheel. The engine hums low, even. Night suits this kind of silence.
Dia is asleep.
She falls asleep easily when she feels safe. I notice that. The lights from outside move across her face, like they're careful not to wake her.
I shouldn't look.I do anyway.
Nothing is more beautiful than her. That thought arrives fully formed. It doesn't surprise me. It feels factual.
Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against her skin. Her nose is small, the kind that makes her look like a baby when she sleeps. Her mouth is slightly open and relaxed, as if she is too tired to close it. The blanket is pulled up around her shoulders. She is facing my direction.
She sleeps like a child—no tension, no fear. Her hair is falling into her face, with strands brushing against her cheek and lips. I can hear her breath. It's steady.
Both my hands remain on the wheel.
I lift my right hand without thinking. Enough to move her hair away, enough to make her more comfortable. I stop halfway.
I know myself well enough to know what would follow if I touched her now. I would not stop at her hair. And if I crossed that line, even gently, I would regret it—because I would want more than I'm allowed to have.
So I put my hand back.
I return my eyes to the road. Discipline is easier when it's practised daily. This is no different.
Still, memories come without permission.
Her smile—soft at first, like she's unsure whether she's allowed to be happy. Then wider, reckless, when she forgets herself. The way her face changes when she sees animals, how she crouches down without thinking, voice dropping, eyes bright. Birds make her tilt her head, as if she's listening for something only she can hear.
She looks at the moon like it might speak back. The first time I noticed, I almost told her to keep walking. I didn't. I waited. She stood there, staring upward, quiet and small beneath the sky, and for a moment the world felt… gentler.
When she's angry, she goes silent before she speaks. When she's hurt, she pretends she isn't. When she's tired, she leans closer without realising it. She doesn't ask for comfort. She assumes she shouldn't.
I see all of it.
I wonder—sometimes—what I look like in her eyes.
I know she says she hates him. Or believes she does. 'Hate' is the word she reaches for because it's easier to hold than the truth. She doesn't want to name what she feels for him, and I don't ask her to. I know better.
Even with that unspoken presence between us, even with him existing in the space she pretends is empty, I still see her more clearly than anyone. I notice the way her sentences pause when her thoughts get heavy, how her fingers curl when anxiety settles in, and how her shoulders slowly ease when she realises she isn't being judged.
I fell in love with her soul long before I ever considered her body. That's the truth of it. I loved the way she exists in the world—quietly, stubbornly, honestly. Touch never mattered. Presence did.
I never craved attention before her. I never needed to be seen. Then she looked at me—really looked—and something in me shifted. Just enough to never return to how it was before.
I glance at her again.
Her hair is still in her face. It doesn't bother her. She looks like a painting left unfinished on purpose—soft edges, no sharp lines. Alive even in rest.
I don't care how complicated this becomes. I don't care how this ends. I want to stay beside her. That choice feels permanent in a way vows never do.
This isn't about loving her.
It's about making sure she feels safe when she closes her eyes. It's about being the quiet place she can rest without asking permission. I don't need her to choose me. I just need her to never feel alone while I'm here.
I am hers in this waiting.I am hers in this silence.
My heart softens every time I think of her name. I don't want another life, another love, or another version where this is different. Even if she never knows. Even if this stays one-sided, unspoken, and unfinished.
I keep driving.
The road stretches forward, dark and familiar. And I stay exactly where I am—hands steady, heart open, choosing her in all the ways that don't ask for anything back.
Her place is fifteen minutes from mine.
I think about it as I turn into my street. The distance is short, but what waits there isn't rest. Too many questions. Too much silence that presses instead of comforts. If I take her there now, she won't actually sleep. She'll wake up halfway, convince herself she's fine, and push herself again.
She needs one night where she doesn't have to decide anything.
That's enough reason.
I park the car carefully, as if the sound alone might disturb her. The engine clicks as it cools.
Dia doesn't wake.
For a moment, I don't move.
I tell myself I'm only waiting to be sure she's comfortable. That I'm deciding what to do next. The truth is simpler: I don't want to stop looking at her yet.
"Dia," I say quietly.
Her name feels different when I say it like this.
She shifts slightly, brow tightening for a second, then relaxes again. No words. No opening of eyes. Just sleep holding her firmly.
I consider waking her. I should. That would be the correct thing to do—offer the spare room, give her the choice, and keep everything clean and clear.
I don't.
She looks exhausted in a way sleep hasn't fixed yet. Like her body is resting, but her soul is still catching up. If I wake her now, she may prefer to stay at her place instead of here. I do not want her to be alone. She will insist she is fine. She'll try to leave.
I unbuckle my seatbelt.
The door opens softly. Night air rushes in, cool and sharp. I move around to her side and pause again, my hand hovering near the door handle. Once I do this, there's no pretending it's accidental.
I open the door.
She stirs when I slide one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. Her body tenses for half a second—instinct, nothing more—then eases into me. She doesn't wake. Her forehead rests against my chest, breath warm through my coat.
She's lighter than she should be.
That thought bothers me more than it should.
I carry her inside without turning on the lights. I know this space well enough to navigate it in the dark. Shoes off. Door locked.
She murmurs something—too soft to catch
"It's fine," I say, though I'm not sure who I'm reassuring.
I carefully place her on the bed, kneel down, and carefully remove her shoes, followed by her socks. Her toes relax almost immediately, and I arrange the blanket as I've seen her prefer—tucked at the sides but not too tight. She shifts to her side.
"Good night," I say quietly.
She doesn't respond. Her breathing evens out again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of rhythm that tells me she's slipped fully back into sleep, unaware of the moment passing around her.
Her bag.
And her phone.
I step back into the hallway and return to the car. The bag is still on the back seat, exactly where she left it. The phone is plugged in, the screen is dark, and it is charging.
100%
I unplug it.
The screen lights up for a second
Her wallpaper catches my eye—Dia smiling. Beside her, only half a shoulder is visible. Familiar. I don't need to wonder whose it is.
I turn the screen off immediately.
Some things don't require inspection.
I take both back inside and place them beside the bed, close enough that she won't have to search if she wakes.
I stand there for a moment longer than needed.
I look at her once more.
Just to make sure she's here.
Then I quietly close the door behind me.