They didn't walk far, Just down the quiet, tree-lined street beside the ballroom. The night was still, the city noise muffled like a distant memory. Belladonna's heels tapped softly on the pavement, but for once, she didn't feel the urge to lead. Orperform. Or fill the silence with something pleasing. Caleb walked beside her with easy steps, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He didn't ask where they were going. He didn't ask her to talk. And that, more than anything, made her want to speak. Belladonna glanced over at him, his eyes trained ahead."Why did you really come to the event?" she asked. He hesitated before answering. "I promised my sister I'd try."Try what?"He looked at her now. "Try being around people again."There was something in his voice—tired,raw, like an old bruise he didn't want to explain.
She understood that kind of bruise. The kind that made you good at hiding and better at pretending. "Did it help?" she asked softly. Caleb gave a small, humorless smile. "Until I saw someone trying even harder than I was." They stopped near a small bench tucked beneath a streetlamp. Belladonna sat first, smoothing the fabric of her dress beneathher legs, the red silk now wrinkled from hours of wear. Caleb sat beside her, not too close. Respectful distance. Real presence."I used to dream about nights like these," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Glamorous dresses, flashing lights, people calling my name. I thought if I was admired enough, I wouldn't feel so empty."She didn't know why she was telling him this. Maybe because he didn't interrupt. Maybe because he wasn't offering advice. He was just… listening. "And did it work?" he asked.
She let out a shaky breath. "Only for a while. Admiration doesn't feel like love when you have to earn it every time." Caleb looked at her—not with sympathy, but with a kind of quiet recognition. "You don't have to earn anything right now," he said. "You can just be."Belladonna's chest tightened. The words sounded so simple. So obvious. But they were the exact words she had needed for years and never heard—not from her parents, not from friends, not even from herself."I used to write," she said suddenly. Caleb blinked. "You?" She nodded, almost sheepish. "Poetry. Stories. When I was younger. I stopped when my mother told me no one would take me seriously if I spent time on 'pretty little dreams.'" Caleb didn't speak for a moment. Then, "Do you remember any of them?"Belladonna looked down at her hands. "Some. But I haven't tried in years.""Maybe it's time to start again."
His voice didn't demand. It didn't push. It invited. And for the first time in forever, Belladonna didn't feel small for the things she loved. They sat in silence again, but now it was full—full of shared weight, unspoken thoughts, and the first gentle signs of trust. Belladonna didn't know what Caleb's story was. She didn't need to. All she knew was that something in him echoed the part of her she thought no one would ever recognize. The part that didn't want to be admired. As the night slowly unraveled around them, Belladonna realized something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years "Safe."Not in a room full of people. Besides one person who didn't ask her to be anything but herself.