The silence was the first thing she noticed after waking up in the new home.
Not the kind that comforts. The kind that presses in around your ribs, making you aware of how loud your thoughts are when there's no one left to fill the air with theirs.
The morning light filtered in through the transparent windows, brushing the floor in sleepy gold. Her suitcase was half unzipped beside the bed, its contents spilling out like it had given up halfway too.
She hadn't eaten yet. It was nearly 3 PM.
Her fingers hovered over the mug in her hands—empty. She'd made tea. She didn't remember drinking it.
Elira doesn't have that many things to call it a home yet.
She started unpacking, then stopped. Rearranged the cups. Stared at the fridge door. Opened it. Closed it. Walked from one end of the small apartment to the other and felt… foreign. Like the walls hadn't decided to trust her yet.
It was the first place she had fully chosen for herself. That made it feel sacred—and terrifying.
✧ Flashback
A version of her, younger and smaller, hunched over a phone screen. A text left on read. Her heart thudding in her ears as she typed another message. "Just let me know. I can change the plan."
She'd rearranged her own soul once, just to be easier to love.
✧ Present
She stared at that same number now. Still saved under a name she no longer whispered.
Then she hit delete.
One by one, she tucked old notes into a folder and set it in the back of the closet. Took an old journal, tore out the pages she no longer needed to carry, and burned them in the sink.
Not in anger. but in clarity.
That version of her didn't live here anymore....
By late afternoon, she headed out.
A short list in her pocket. Tea. Bread. some instant noodles, maybe few candles. She paused at the market, smiled politely at the cashier, and accidentally dropped all her coins. The girl behind the counter helped pick them up without judgment. Elira smiled—awkward but genuine.
On the way back, something made her stop.
A little bookstore. Dusty windows. An old hanging sign with peeling gold paint. It looked forgotten. But in a warm, timeless way.
She stepped in without thinking much.
There he was.
The tattoo guy. He sat in the back, flipping through a book. His hoodie was draped loosely over one shoulder, a small, inked butterfly visible near his ear.
He didn't see her immediately.
Her hand hovered near the spine of a poetry book. She turned it over once. Then again.
And then—he looked up.
Recognition sparked, but neither smiled.
He gave a small nod. "Hey."
She nodded back. "Hi."
A pause.
"I remember you," he said.
"I didn't think you would."
"I don't forget faces easily."
She hesitated. Wanted to ask his name. Didn't. Maybe forgot how.
"I should go," she said.
He nodded. "Alright."
But as she turned, he called softly, "Come back sometime. It's quiet here."
"I like quiet," she replied.
He just smiled.
She didn't ask his name.Maybe she wasn't ready to hold something else yet.
But the universe didn't rush her.
For now, choosing the quiet was enough.
Back in her apartment, the silence felt different. Not lighter—but warmer.
She lit the vanilla candle that she bought earlier. Made toast. Wrote a line in her journal:
"Some things bloom in silence."
She wasn't healed. But she wasn't bleeding anymore.