---
The morning air carried a chill.
Elena pulled the sweater closer around her shoulders, standing by her window with a steaming cup of tea. The city was slowly waking up—buses rumbling, doors unlocking, vendors setting up—but her apartment remained still.
Except for the gift on the floor.
It was wrapped in brown paper. No tape. Just tied with a dark ribbon and placed gently in front of her door.
Again.
She didn't need to open it to know it was from him.
She bent down slowly, heart pounding, fingers trembling as they untied the ribbon.
Inside was a small, beautiful notebook. The cover was soft leather, deep maroon. Inside, the first page was blank—except for one sentence, written in his familiar, sharp handwriting:
> Write what you can't say.
Her breath caught.
She clutched the notebook to her chest, fighting back the sudden wave of emotion.
He knew she was breaking inside.
And still, he didn't knock. Didn't speak.
He just… gave.
---
She brought the notebook to her room and placed it beside her bed.
Then, for the first time since learning she was pregnant, she looked in the mirror—not just a glance, but really looked.
The changes were subtle. Her belly still barely showed, but her hips had softened. Her eyes looked tired, not from lack of sleep—but from carrying too much.
From hiding too much.
She pressed her hand to her abdomen again. "Should I give you a name?"
She wasn't sure why, but the thought made her chest ache.
She opened the notebook.
Then wrote:
> If I name you, maybe you'll feel more real.
Maybe you'll feel like something I can protect.
She paused, pen trembling.
> I'll call you Aria.
(It means melody.)
Because even in this silence, you're the only sound I hear.
---
Across the street, Luca sat on a bench, coffee untouched beside him, watching through the window.
He couldn't hear her, but he saw her hold the notebook.
He saw the way her lips moved slowly, like she was speaking into the quiet.
He wondered what name she had given their child.
His child.
His chest tightened with emotion he couldn't name. He didn't deserve to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But still—he watched.
He imagined the sound of her voice whispering lullabies. The sound of a tiny heartbeat against her chest. The way the apartment might look filled with soft blankets and baby socks and quiet giggles.
He imagined too much.
And it hurt.
Because it would never be his.
Not really.
He could only stand guard. Like a ghost.
A protector in the dark.
---
Elena didn't go to class that day. Instead, she spent hours walking aimlessly through the local bookstore, fingers brushing covers she couldn't afford.
Luca trailed behind her like a shadow.
Always unseen.
He watched as she paused in front of the parenting section, then turned quickly away, as if ashamed.
He saw the way she pressed her forehead to a cold windowpane, lost in her own thoughts.
And then, later, when she sat in the small café around the corner, stirring her drink without drinking it—he was still there.
Watching. Guarding.
Loving in silence.
---
When she returned home, another small envelope waited at her door.
No name. No note.
Inside was a list of antenatal clinics—affordable, private, clean. All within her neighborhood. Each one neatly highlighted, and a printed schedule of available appointments.
She sank to the floor, clutching the paper in her hands.
Her voice cracked through the silence.
"Why are you doing this?"
No one answered.
But in her heart, she already knew.
He was still protecting her.
Even now.
Even without her forgiveness.
---
Later that night, when the city grew quiet and the wind turned colder, Luca stood again at her door.
He didn't leave anything this time.
He just stood.
His palm rested on the wood like a silent promise.
"I'm still here," he whispered under his breath. "Even if you never see me."
He closed his eyes, remembering how small she looked in that café chair. How tight she held her sweater. How she never smiled anymore.
It was his fault.
But if she ever forgave him—if she ever let him in—he'd never let her go again.
Not even death would take her from him.
---
Elena dreamed that night.
In her dream, she was walking through a fog-covered street. The buildings were tall, gray, faceless. She couldn't see more than a few feet ahead.
But someone walked behind her.
She couldn't see him. But she knew it was him.
He never spoke.
Never reached out.
But every time she turned, he stopped.
Waiting.
Watching.
Protecting.
She didn't run.
She just kept walking.
And slowly—so slowly—she began to hope that maybe… if she stopped walking… he'd come closer.
---
She woke up with her heart racing.
Outside, birds chirped. A breeze moved the curtain.
And on the floor, just beneath her bed, the notebook lay open.
She had written in her sleep.
Two simple lines:
> I don't want you to stay away anymore.
But I'm afraid of what that means.
---