This is the first time in my life I feel this kind of happiness.
Not the loud, celebratory kind. Not the kind that comes with success or achievement. This happiness is quieter, deeper—settled somewhere in my chest, steady and warm. The kind that makes everything else feel unnecessary.
She is with me.
And somehow, that feels like enough.
Earlier, I couldn't wait to leave this place. The poor roads, the distance from my world, the inconvenience—it all irritated me. Now, I wish time would slow down. I want to stay here longer. I want mornings that begin with the thought of seeing her and evenings that end with her smile lingering in my mind.
When I asked Alice to show me around—the places from her childhood—I didn't expect her to agree so easily. But she did. Happily. That alone made my heart swell. It meant trust. It meant she was letting me step into her world.
We decided to meet at ten.
I'm standing there, checking my watch for the third time, pretending I'm not nervous. And then I see her walking toward me.
I forget how to breathe.
She's dressed simply—a white top and a black knee-length skirt—but the way she carries herself makes her radiant. Effortless. Natural. When she comes closer and smiles, something inside me breaks open. I don't think. I don't calculate.
I step forward and kiss her.
It's instinctive. Soft at first, then deeper as she responds, meeting me halfway. The world fades for a moment. Just us. Just this feeling—new, thrilling, terrifying. When I sense it might go too far, I stop myself. I rest my forehead against hers instead, grounding both of us.
She looks shy when she opens her eyes, and that alone makes me smile.
I take her hand.
And just like that, our journey begins.
She shows me the narrow lanes she used to run through as a child. The old playground where she scraped her knees and learned how to climb trees. The small temple where her mother still lights a lamp every evening. As she talks, her eyes light up, her words flowing easily. She is happiest when she speaks about simple things—family, memories, moments that shaped her.
I realize something then.
Alice isn't complicated.
She's deep.
There's a difference.
She has her own charm—quiet, steady, impossible to ignore once you notice it. And I'm noticing everything.
We stop at a small café for a quick snack. Nothing fancy. Just warm tea and simple food served with sincerity. We sit across from each other, sharing smiles, laughter slipping in between conversations. I watch her closely—the way she stirs her cup absentmindedly, the way she looks up when she laughs.
And that's when I decide.
I don't want to hold this back anymore.
I want her to know.
I take a breath, steadying myself. "There's something I want to say," I begin, my voice low but sure.
She looks up at me, attentive.
And then—everything changes.
She suddenly stands up.
So fast that the chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
For a second, I think something is wrong—that she's hurt, or someone called her name. But before I can ask, she starts running.
Running.
Out of the café.
My heart drops.
I stand up immediately, confusion crashing into concern. "Alice!" I call out instinctively, already moving after her.
People stare. The café falls behind me. My only focus is her—her figure disappearing around a corner, her steps fast and urgent. I don't understand what just happened. One moment we were laughing. The next—this.
I chase after her, my mind racing.
Did I scare her?
Was it too soon?
Did she misunderstand something?
I finally catch up to her near the street. She stops abruptly, breathless, her back to me.
"Alice," I say gently, careful not to startle her. "What happened?"
She doesn't turn around immediately. When she does, her eyes are filled with emotion I can't read—fear mixed with something else. Conflict. Overwhelm.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I—I shouldn't have stayed. I forgot myself."
My chest tightens.
"Forgot what?" I ask softly.
She shakes her head. "This. Us. I wasn't ready for you to say something. Not yet."
I take a step closer, but keep my distance. "I wasn't going to force anything," I say. "I just wanted to be honest."
She looks at me then—really looks at me. "That's what scares me," she whispers. "Honesty."
The word lingers between us.
I understand, suddenly.
She's not running from me.
She's running from the possibility of getting hurt again.
And that realization doesn't make me angry.
It makes me patient.
I nod slowly. "Okay," I say. "Then we take it slow. No pressure. No promises you're not ready for."
She exhales, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
"I don't want to lose you," she admits quietly. "But I'm still learning how to trust what feels good."
I offer her a small smile. "Then let me stay. Not ahead of you. Not behind you. Just… with you."
She doesn't answer right away.
But she doesn't walk away again either.
And for now, that's enough.