The sky had shifted by the time they left the little yellow room.
Evening painted everything in golden strokes, soft and low, like the world had turned its volume down just for them. They didn't talk much on the drive back, but the silence wasn't empty. It was full of something sacred. A shared heartbeat that didn't need words.
Hriva sat turned slightly toward Jake, her legs pulled up into the seat, her fingers resting near the old guitar pick he'd given her on the way out. It was worn smooth at the edges, faded from years of use. But he'd pressed it into her palm like it still held music.
"I want you to keep it," he'd said.
And she had.
Now it sat curled in her hand like a secret.
Jake glanced at her as he drove. "You okay?"
She nodded. "That was… more than I expected."
"In a good way?"
"In the kind of way I won't forget."
Jake's lips twitched into the smallest smile. He didn't say anything else, just reached over and rested his hand over hers. They drove like that until the city welcomed them back in a blur of lights and the hum of life moving too fast.
But they weren't in a rush.
They never were, not with each other.
Later that night, back at her apartment, they lay on the couch with a blanket tangled around their legs, the TV playing something they both forgot to follow. Jake's arm was under her shoulders, his thumb tracing the top of her arm absentmindedly.
Hriva tilted her head, looking at him. "Can I show you something now?"
Jake turned down the volume. "Always."
She sat up and walked to the bookshelf by her desk. From behind a row of journals and sketch pads, she pulled out a leather notebook, frayed at the edges. Jake watched her with soft curiosity.
She came back and settled beside him again, handing it over. "This is mine. I mean… my yellow room, I guess."
He ran his fingers over the cover before opening it slowly.
Inside were pages filled with raw, beautiful handwriting. Some pages had ink smudges. Others had tiny doodles or lines scratched out and rewritten three or four times.
It wasn't poetry exactly.
More like thoughts caught mid-flight.
One page read:"I don't want the kind of love that fades quietly. I want the kind that shouts without making a sound."
Another:"Some people feel like gravity. Not heavy, but impossible to forget."
Jake's voice dropped to a whisper. "These are yours?"
Hriva nodded, tucking her legs underneath her. "I don't share them. Not with anyone. Not until now."
He read a few more pages, slower this time, like each word meant something personal. And when he looked up, his eyes held something different.
A kind of reverence.
"You see the world like it's both breaking and healing at once," he said quietly.
She gave a small smile. "So do you. You just sing it instead."
He closed the journal and handed it back carefully. "Thank you."
Hriva tucked it against her chest, her voice softer than breath. "I just wanted you to know the rest of me. Not just the girl who laughs at your cousin's jokes or wears your hoodie. But the one who thinks too much at night and writes it down because she doesn't know what else to do with it."
Jake leaned in and kissed her temple. "I love all of it. All of you."
They sat there a while longer, wrapped in blanket warmth and half-drunk tea and the weight of vulnerability offered without a safety net.
Then Hriva whispered, "Let's remember this night. Exactly like this."
Jake touched his forehead to hers. "We will. Always."
And in the quiet hum of the room, two hearts rested side by side, heard, held, and home.