Morning arrived gently, as if the world itself was afraid of waking her too loudly.
Cyra Voss opened her eyes to pale sunlight slipping through the thin gap in her curtains, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it really was. Her phone lay beside her pillow where she had left it the night before, face down, silent, innocent — as if it hadn't been the doorway to something that quietly changed her.
For a few seconds she stayed still, staring at the ceiling, trying to locate the strange warmth sitting in her chest. It wasn't excitement. It wasn't nervousness. It was something quieter. Something unfamiliar.
A memory.
She turned her phone over.
His name was still there.
Edward Hale.
The sight of it made her heart shift slightly, the way it does when you realize you are thinking about someone before you even mean to.
She hesitated.
Was she supposed to feel embarrassed about last night?
Curious?
Regretful?
Instead, she felt… calm.
The screen lit up before she could decide anything.
Good morning, Cyra.
Two simple words.
Not flirtatious.
Not dramatic.
Just a greeting, offered as if her waking into the world mattered.
Her lips curved into a small, surprised smile.
She typed back, erased it, rewrote it, erased it again — finally sending a softer version of what she wanted to say.
"Morning."
His reply came quickly.
"Did you sleep well?"
She paused.
No one had asked her that in a long time.
"I think so," she wrote. "I'm just… thinking."
"About last night?"
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
"Yes."
There was no teasing in what came next. No curiosity sharpened by pride.
"How did it feel?"
The question made her swallow.
"I don't know how to explain it," she typed slowly. "New. Strange. But… not bad."
"That's enough," he replied. "It doesn't have to be anything more than that."
Something in that steadiness soothed her. The way he never tried to claim the moment as something that belonged to him.
And then — without warning — he sent a photograph.
She opened it, confused.
A cucumber.
In his hand.
Perfectly ordinary.
Perfectly intentional.
She stared for a second.
Then burst into laughter.
Out loud.
"Edward," she typed, "what is this supposed to mean?"
His reply appeared a moment later.
"Does it remind you of anything?"
She covered her mouth, laughing harder now, shaking her head at the screen.
And just like that, whatever awkwardness had lingered between them dissolved into something light, something playful, something dangerously easy.
It was then she realized something important:
With him, nothing felt heavy.
And that — more than anything — is how something unnamed begins.
—
The days that followed did not change suddenly.
They unfolded quietly.
Their conversations didn't deepen all at once. They softened first.
They spoke about food.
"Did you eat today?" he asked one afternoon.
"Yes," she replied. "Rice and curry. Too spicy."
"Drink water," he said.
She rolled her eyes at the screen, smiling.
They spoke about her university — lectures that bored her, About his work in a country she had never visited, his long hours, his strange sleep schedule that never quite matched hers.
Sometimes she would be walking across campus while he was preparing for work, and it felt like time itself was bending slightly to let them meet in the middle.
Cyra had always seemed open to the world.
She laughed easily.
She spoke freely.
She made people comfortable without trying.
But inside, she was careful in ways no one noticed.
She did not share fears.
She did not admit doubts.
She did not ask for help.
She had learned early how to be her own anchor.
Edward noticed.
He noticed when her replies came slower.
He noticed when her jokes lost their brightness.
He noticed when she said she was fine but sounded… thinner.
"How are you really feeling today?" he asked once.
She almost said fine.
Almost.
"I'm tired," she admitted instead.
"Then rest," he replied. "You don't have to be strong all the time."
The words startled her.
No one had ever said that to her before.
—
Three weeks later, without warning, she vanished.
She blocked him everywhere.
Not because she was angry.
Not because she was hurt.
Because the panic had come suddenly, uninvited — tight chest, racing thoughts, the familiar storm she never learned how to explain.
When anxiety took her, she did what she had always done.
She disappeared.
For two days, she folded herself into silence.
On the third morning, she unblocked him.
Her screen flooded instantly.
"Cyra?"
"Did I upset you?"
"Why did you block me?"
"Are you okay?"
Her chest tightened.
"I'm sorry," she typed. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Then tell me what happened," he said gently.
She hesitated longer than she wanted to.
"I have anxiety," she finally wrote. "Sometimes panic attacks. When it gets bad, I stay away from people. I block them. I don't want to say something wrong. I don't want to burden anyone."
Instead of pulling away, he leaned closer.
"What usually triggers it?"
She blinked.
No one had ever asked her that before.
"I don't always know," she replied. "Sometimes it's nothing. Sometimes it's everything."
"Does it happen often?"
"Yes."
"What do you do when it comes?"
"I wait for it to pass."
"You shouldn't have to face it alone," he sent.
And quietly, something inside her shifted.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Like a door opening somewhere deep within her.
She told him about her nights.
Her overthinking.
The fear she hid behind humor.
The exhaustion of pretending she was always okay.
He listened.
And listening, she learned, was its own kind of care.
—
From then on, he became careful with her in ways she never asked for.
He reminded her to eat.
To sleep.
To breathe.
When she disappeared, he waited without anger.
When she returned, he welcomed her without questions.
Slowly, she began telling him things she had never told anyone.
About her childhood.
About the pressure she carried quietly.
About the dreams she was afraid to name.
Edward never rushed her.
Never claimed her.
Never crossed lines she did not invite him to cross.
He simply stayed.
And staying, she learned, is how trust is built.
—
Cyra had never believed much in People.
People came.
People left.
She had made peace with both.
Until Edward.
Without intending to.
Without promising anything.
He began to step past the lines she had drawn around her heart.
Not with romance.
Not with declarations.
But with presence.
With gentleness.
With care.
And one evening, reading his message about how her day had been, she realized something that frightened her softly:
She cared whether he stayed.
Because this girl — who had mastered the art of letting people pass through her life untouched — was beginning to hold on.
Not because he asked her to.
But because the way he cared had opened a door she had sworn to protect.
And she did not yet understand the danger in letting someone become part of her inner circle.
She only knew one thing:
For the first time in years…
She was getting attached.
And she had no idea how much that would one day cost her.