Trust did not arrive with certainty.
It arrived with risk.
That was the truth Elior was beginning to understand as the shape of his life softened into something steadier, something quieter than he had once imagined love to be. Receiving love had opened a door he hadn't known was locked—but trusting that love would stay meant stepping through without armor.
And armor had once kept him alive.
---
Elior noticed how instinctively he still guarded happiness.
When moments felt good—too good—his body tensed, bracing for the correction. He would catalogue reasons it might end, not consciously, but reflexively. It was as if some part of him believed joy was a loan that would soon come due.
Trusting what stayed meant letting go of that vigilance.
And vigilance had been his companion for most of his life.
---
Mira sensed the shift before he named it.
"You're here," she said one evening as they cooked together. "But you're also… watching."
Elior smiled faintly. "Old habit."
"Do you want to tell me what you're watching for?"
He paused, knife hovering over the cutting board.
"For the moment when I mess this up," he admitted. "Or when it stops feeling like this."
Mira leaned against the counter, studying him—not with concern, but curiosity.
"And if it does?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Then I'll say I knew it."
She tilted her head. "That sounds lonely."
It was.
---
Trusting what stayed required him to believe something radical.
That love did not need to be anticipated like loss.
That connection could deepen without demanding collapse.
That happiness didn't need a contingency plan.
These ideas felt almost irresponsible.
But they were also freeing.
---
The first real test came when nothing went wrong.
Weeks passed. Then months.
No dramatic conflict. No sudden withdrawal. No slow erosion of affection.
Just consistency.
Just presence.
And Elior felt something unfamiliar rise in him—not fear, not joy.
Suspicion.
---
One night, lying awake beside Mira, he stared at the ceiling again—his old companion during moments of emotional reckoning.
Why hasn't this changed yet?
What am I missing?
The questions haunted him not because something was wrong—but because nothing was.
And for someone raised on instability, stability felt unreal.
---
The next morning, he decided to speak the fear out loud.
"I keep waiting for the shift," he said over breakfast. "The moment when this starts to fade."
Mira looked at him thoughtfully. "Does it feel like it's fading?"
"No," he said quickly. "That's the problem."
She smiled gently. "Maybe you're allowed to stop waiting."
The suggestion felt almost dangerous.
"I don't know how," he admitted.
She reached across the table, touching his wrist lightly. "Then maybe you start by noticing when you are."
---
So Elior practiced noticing.
Noticing when laughter came easily.
Noticing when silence felt companionable.
Noticing when Mira stayed—even when he wasn't at his best.
Each time he noticed, he resisted the urge to predict its end.
This, he realized, was what trust asked for.
Presence without forecast.
---
Still, old reflexes did not vanish overnight.
One evening, after a long day, Elior snapped at Mira over something trivial. The moment passed quickly, but shame followed immediately, sharp and familiar.
There it is, his mind whispered.
Now she'll see you clearly.
He waited for withdrawal.
For disappointment.
For distance.
Instead, Mira said calmly, "Hey. That felt sharp. Are you okay?"
He blinked. "You're not… upset?"
"I am," she said honestly. "But I'm not leaving."
The sentence stunned him.
Upset—and staying.
Conflict—and continuity.
It rewired something deep inside him.
---
Trusting what stayed did not mean avoiding rupture.
It meant believing in repair.
That disagreements did not equal abandonment.
That imperfection did not revoke belonging.
---
Later that night, Elior apologized—not excessively, not defensively. Just sincerely.
Mira accepted it without turning it into a ledger.
And for the first time, Elior did not feel the need to compensate with perfection afterward.
He let the moment be human.
---
Trust grew quietly after that.
Not as a grand leap—but as accumulation.
Each time love remained where he expected it to leave.
Each time Mira stayed curious instead of cold.
Each time he stayed present instead of disappearing.
Trust was being built—not promised.
---
Elior thought often of the boy he once was.
The boy who believed love was conditional on flawlessness.
The boy who scanned faces for signs of rejection.
The boy who thought vigilance was the same as care.
That boy had survived.
But he had not rested.
---
Now, rest was being offered.
And rest required surrender.
---
One afternoon, walking alone through the city, Elior realized something profound.
Trusting love was not about believing it would last forever.
It was about believing he would survive—even if it didn't.
That understanding changed everything.
---
He no longer needed guarantees to stay open.
He no longer needed control to feel safe.
He trusted himself.
And that trust extended outward.
---
That evening, sitting with Mira on the balcony, city lights flickering below, Elior spoke the truth gently.
"I'm learning how to trust that you're here," he said. "Not because you promised—but because you've shown me."
Mira smiled softly. "I don't know how long anything lasts," she replied. "But I know how I'm choosing right now."
That was enough.
More than enough.
---
Trusting what stayed meant allowing love to be temporal—and meaningful anyway.
It meant understanding that permanence was not the measure of value.
Presence was.
---
As the night deepened, Elior felt a calm he had once believed was reserved for other people.
People who were easier to love.
People who didn't overthink.
People who didn't carry old fears like inheritance.
But here he was.
Loved.
Staying.
Trusting.
---
The final barrier softened inside him.
He no longer guarded love as if it were fragile.
He honored it as resilient.
---
Before sleep, Elior whispered into the quiet—not a plea, not a promise.
Just a truth.
"I trust this moment."
And for the first time in his life, that felt like enough.
---
🌠 End of Chapter Thirty-Six