The first real disagreement between Amara and Daniel happened on a Saturday afternoon, nearly two months after she learned how to wait.
It wasn't loud. There were no raised voices or slammed doors. In fact, if someone had walked past them at the café where they sat, they would have seen nothing more than a couple leaning toward each other, speaking calmly.
That was what made it dangerous.
They had planned to spend the day together. Daniel suggested brunch; Amara chose the place. They were halfway through their meal when Daniel's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, frowned briefly, then stood.
"I need to take this," he said.
Amara nodded easily. "Okay."
She watched him step outside, expecting him back within minutes. Instead, ten passed. Then fifteen.
She stared at her plate, appetite fading. When Daniel finally returned, his expression was distracted, already halfway somewhere else.
"I need to head out after this," he said, sitting down. "Something came up."
Amara blinked. "Now?"
"Yeah," he said apologetically. "I'll make it up to you."
She hesitated. "We planned the whole day."
Daniel sighed, not sharply, but wearily. "Amara, it's just one afternoon."
The words stung more than she expected.
"I know," she said slowly. "I just—"
"Why are you turning this into something?" he asked, rubbing his forehead. "Things happen."
The question shut something down in her.
"I'm not," she said quietly. "I just wanted to say I was disappointed."
Daniel leaned back, relief visible on his face when she didn't push further. "Okay. I hear you."
But his tone suggested closure.
They finished brunch quickly. Daniel paid, kissed her cheek, promised to call later.
He didn't.
That night, Amara lay awake replaying the conversation, trying to pinpoint where it ended without resolution. She hadn't felt heard—only pacified.
Still, she told herself she was being sensitive.
It was only one afternoon.