The morning light crept into Adaora's room slowly, like it was afraid to disturb her. Golden beams painted lines across her sheets, spilling warmth she could not yet feel. She stirred, half-awake, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, she imagined Tobi lying beside her. She could almost feel the weight of his arm draped across her waist, his breath against her shoulder.
Her heart betrayed her. It leapt, hopeful, before crashing into reality. The other side of the bed was cold, untouched. Empty.
A sharp ache twisted through her chest, and she turned her face into the pillow, as if burying herself could erase the absence. She thought of last night—the jacket. The scent of him still clinging to it, refusing to fade. She had pressed her face into the fabric and broken open all over again, sobbing until her ribs ached. She had thought she was past that. She had thought she was healing.
Now she wasn't sure of anything.
Her eyes drifted to the small leather-bound journal on her nightstand. Adriella had given it to her in Chapter Four, pressing it into her hands with gentle insistence: "Write what you can't say. Let the pages carry it." At first, Adaora had resisted, but over time, the blank pages had filled with shaky handwriting—fragments of pain, questions with no answers, and confessions she had been too ashamed to say aloud.
It was still there, waiting.
Her fingers itched to reach for it, but she hesitated. What would she even write today? That she still missed him? That the world felt empty without his laughter? That every time she made progress, she stumbled again, like last night?
She sighed, pushing herself upright. The silence in the room pressed down, the same suffocating weight she had felt so often since he left. It reminded her of Chapter Five, when even the ticking of a clock felt like an insult, too loud against the hollow quiet. But today, the silence was softer. Not gentler exactly, but less cruel—like it was offering space instead of punishment.
Still, the heaviness lingered.
She shuffled toward the window and pulled it open. The air outside smelled faintly of earth and blossoms. She glanced down the street and saw the jacaranda tree swaying in the morning breeze, purple petals falling in a lazy dance.
The sight startled her.
She remembered that tree from weeks ago, in Chapter Six—When the World Moves On Without You. She had stood there then, watching children play under its branches, couples walking hand in hand, vendors arranging fruit at their stalls. Life had gone on, indifferent to her shattered heart. The blossoms had seemed mocking that day, cruel in their insistence on blooming while she withered.
But today… she looked again. The blossoms didn't mock her. They weren't celebrating without her. They simply existed, unbothered, steady. They bloomed because that was what they were made to do.
A strange thought tugged at her: Maybe I can be like that. Maybe I can still exist, still bloom, even if it hurts.
The thought was small, fragile as a whisper. But it was something.
Later, a knock sounded at her door. She knew it was Adriella before she even opened it. Her friend came in, balancing a bag of groceries in her arms, her hair a little messy from rushing. She filled the room instantly, her presence buzzing with a warmth Adaora had come to depend on.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Adriella said, dropping the bag onto the counter.
Adaora shook her head. "Just… the tree outside. It's different today."
Adriella paused, studying her. Then she smiled, soft and knowing. "Or maybe you're different today."
They cooked together, or rather, Adriella cooked while Adaora leaned against the counter, watching. The smell of fried tomatoes and peppers filled the kitchen. For the first time in weeks, Adaora's stomach stirred with something like hunger.
As they sat at the table, Adaora murmured, "I don't know how you keep showing up. I wouldn't, if I were you."
Adriella met her eyes, unflinching. "Because you're my friend. Because I promised I'd hold the line until you could hold it for yourself. And because I know—whether you believe it or not—that one day, you'll laugh again. And when you do, I want to be here to hear it."
Adaora's throat tightened. Tears welled, spilling before she could blink them away. They weren't the violent sobs of last night; they were gentler, quieter, like rain tapping against a window.
After lunch, Adriella insisted they take a walk. Adaora resisted at first, afraid of running into Tobi again, afraid of what it might undo in her. But Adriella's persistence wore her down.
So they walked.
The streets were alive with the rhythm of ordinary life—vendors shouting prices, the smell of roasted corn wafting from a roadside stall, the shrill laughter of children chasing a ball. Adaora braced herself for the familiar sting of being left behind. But strangely, it didn't come.
The world didn't feel like it was mocking her anymore. It just… was. And she was in it, part of it, step by shaky step.
When they returned home, Adaora picked up her journal. She opened to a fresh page, gripping the pen tightly. She didn't write about heartbreak this time, or the hollow ache of Tobi's absence. Instead, she wrote about the jacaranda blossoms—how they swayed without apology, how they bloomed without waiting for anyone to notice.
She wrote about silence, too—that sometimes it was unbearable, but sometimes it was a canvas, waiting to be filled.
And when she closed the journal, she realized her chest didn't feel quite as heavy. The grief was still there, yes—it probably would be for a long time—but it wasn't the only thing there anymore.
Something else had made room alongside it.
Hope.
It was small, fragile, but alive.