The first time he held her hand, it wasn't dramatic. There were no violins, no rain, no confessions whispered under the moonlight. It was quiet. Almost fragile.
But for her, it felt like the universe had paused.
She remembered how her fingers trembled when his brushed against hers. Not because she was afraid—but because she had waited so long to feel chosen. To feel seen. His touch wasn't demanding; it was careful, as if he feared she might disappear.
She looked at him that evening, and in his eyes she found something she had never known before—certainty. A warmth that told her, you are safe with me.
Love grew in the smallest moments. In shared tea, in late-night conversations, in the silence that felt comfortable instead of awkward. She gave him pieces of herself she had guarded for years—her dreams, her insecurities, the scars she hid behind her smile.
And when he finally pulled her close one night, resting his forehead against hers, her heart didn't race in fear. It melted.
For him, loving her was simple. He admired her strength, her softness, the way she felt everything deeply. But he never understood how much she risked by loving him.
Because for her, love was surrender.
And surrender meant vulnerability.
Then one day, without warning, distance replaced touch.
Calls became shorter. Messages colder. Promises postponed.
She told herself love doesn't disappear overnight.
But the last time they met, when his hand slipped away from hers… it didn't feel temporary.
It felt unfinished.
And she still didn't know why he left that day without explaining the one truth he had been hiding in his eyes.