Time did what it always did.
It moved forward, quietly and without asking permission.
Issa didn't notice the exact moment she stopped measuring her days against memories. It happened slowly—between lectures and late-night conversations, between coffee cups and crowded sidewalks. One day, she realized she hadn't thought about Max all morning, and the realization didn't feel like loss.
It felt like progress.
She met Theo in her second semester literature class.
He sat two seats to her left, always scribbling notes in the margins of his books, always listening like the world mattered. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully—not to impress, but to be understood.
One afternoon, as they walked out of class together, he asked, "Do you ever feel like stories save us?"
Issa smiled. "I think they remind us we're not alone."
He nodded, like that answer meant something to him.
And maybe it did.
Their connection unfolded gently.
Theo never made her feel like she had to shrink to be loved. When he laughed, he looked at her—not past her, not around her. When she spoke, he listened fully, like her words had weight.
The first time he reached for her hand, he hesitated.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
Issa's throat tightened—not with fear, but with recognition.
"Yes," she said. "It is."
One night, Issa opened her notebook again.
Not to write about Max.
But to write about herself.
About how love didn't have to hurt to be real. About how vulnerability could be met with care instead of silence. About how being chosen felt steady, not uncertain.
She wrote until her hand ached and her heart felt light.
Weeks later, Theo asked her about the notebook.
"You write like someone who's lived through something," he said gently.
She considered telling him everything.
Instead, she said, "I learned how to let go."
He smiled. "That's not an easy thing."
"No," she agreed. "But it's worth it."
On a quiet evening, Issa stood by her dorm window, city lights flickering below. She thought about the girl she used to be—the one who loved quietly, who waited, who wrote letters she was afraid to speak.
She didn't regret her.
She thanked her.
Because she had taught Issa how to love deeply—and how to walk away when love asked too much.
Issa closed the notebook and turned off the light.
Tomorrow waited.
And this time, she was ready to step into it without looking back.