Soshan's POV
I didn't mean to overhear.
But I did.
I'd come to return a borrowed book to Nomi—something forgettable, something I now couldn't even name—and I'd turned the corner just in time to hear Ruelle's voice cracking through tears. Her back was to me, hunched slightly, like the weight of her words might pull her into the ground.
"I thought I mattered," she whispered. "And then… just silence."
I froze.
Every word was a needle stitching guilt into my chest.
I hadn't realized how deeply I'd hurt her. I told myself my silence was self-preservation. That maybe she wasn't what I thought. That she was just experimenting. That she had someone else. That I had to stay away to protect myself.
But in her voice, I didn't hear manipulation. I heard heartbreak. The kind I knew too well.
By the time I turned around and walked away, I already knew what I had to do.
⸻
It was past eight when I stood outside her house, heart thudding like a warning drum. The lights were on, soft and golden behind her curtains. I didn't text. I didn't call. I didn't want to give her the chance to say no.
I knocked.
And when the door opened, her eyes widened, then narrowed with confusion. Her face was clean but tired, like she'd just stopped crying—or was trying not to start again.
"Soshan?" she said, almost like she didn't believe it.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words tangled. So I did the only thing I could: I looked at her like I needed her to understand everything I couldn't say.
"I'm sorry," I said, finally. "Can I come in?"
She hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping aside.
The room was quiet except for the hum of a distant fan. A candle flickered on the windowsill, throwing soft shadows across her wall.
"I shouldn't have ignored you," I said, as soon as the door clicked shut behind me. "I got scared. I assumed things. I thought you'd moved on, or that maybe I was just—"
"You weren't," she said, cutting me off gently. "You weren't just anything."
The silence between us cracked with something fragile and electric.
I took a slow step forward. So did she.
And then we collided.
It wasn't fast or frenzied—it was slow, aching, like a question being answered in touch instead of words. Her hands found my waist, unsure at first, then certain. Mine slid up her arms, to her jaw, tracing the warmth of her skin. Our lips met like they remembered something our minds hadn't caught up to.
Her mouth was soft, trembling slightly as we deepened the kiss. She tasted like cinnamon tea and longing. One of her hands gripped the back of my shirt, like she was afraid I might disappear again.
I wasn't going anywhere.
We moved together in slow sync, mouths opening, breaths mingling. My heart raced under her fingertips as her hand splayed across my chest. I pressed her gently against the wall near the doorway, our bodies molded like a secret we'd been trying to keep and finally couldn't.
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes glassy but certain.
"I hated you for not texting me," she whispered.
"I hated me too," I said.
Then she pulled me in again—like maybe forgiveness was found in closeness, in skin, in that silent, perfect ache of being wanted back.
And in that moment, nothing else existed but the warmth of her lips and the way we finally stopped pretending we didn't care.
I didn't want to leave.
Her warmth still clung to my skin like a secret, and the softness of her goodbye lingered just beneath my collar. But it was late, and we both knew that if I didn't go now, I wouldn't go at all. So I kissed her one more time at the door, her fingers brushing down my wrist as though she didn't want to let go either.
The drive home was quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn't feel empty—but full. Full of everything that had just happened. Every heartbeat. Every unspoken thing that passed through our hands, our lips, our silence.
Later that night, while staring up at the ceiling from my bed, my phone buzzed.
Nomi:
Book reading tomorrow night. 7PM. Chill but artsy vibes. Come with.
I read it twice, the corners of my mouth tugging upward.
I didn't have to ask if Ruelle would be there. I already knew.
⸻
The next evening, I took my time getting dressed—something casual, but soft and polished. I slipped into loose-fitting slate gray trousers that flowed just right when I walked, paired with a fitted black turtleneck that framed my jaw and curled softly at my wrists. Over that, I threw on an oversized oatmeal-toned cardigan that hung effortlessly off my shoulders. My hair was tucked behind one ear, my makeup subtle with a hint of earthy bronze on the eyes and balm on the lips. Cozy, but deliberate.
Intentional, but unreadable.
When I arrived at the little venue—an indie bookstore with warm light and mismatched chairs—I spotted Nomi first. She was standing by a crooked stack of poetry books, waving me over like she owned the room. Nova stood beside her, flipping through a zine with a bored expression, though her smile appeared the moment she saw me.
And then I saw her.
Ruelle was sitting near the front row, perched with one leg crossed over the other, notebook in her lap, pen twirling absentmindedly in her fingers. Her outfit was soft too—cream-colored sweater, rust corduroy pants, her curls loosely pinned back. She hadn't seen me yet.
But God, did my chest tighten.
"Finally!" Nomi grinned, pulling me in for a half-hug. "Took you long enough."
"I'm fashionably on time," I quipped.
Nomi gestured toward the circle of chairs. "Come meet my favorite nerds. Nova, and this is Ruelle. You two don't know each other, right?"
Ruelle looked up then.
And it was instant.
Our eyes caught—locked like something private in a very public room—and the smallest, most charged smile curled on her lips. I couldn't stop mine from mirroring it. Something passed between us in that single glance. Something whole.
"No," I said smoothly, slipping into the empty seat beside Nova. "We haven't met."
Ruelle just chuckled softly and looked away, eyes flickering down to her notebook, but her smile never quite disappeared.
The reading began moments later, but the real story was happening in glances—fleeting and loaded, secret exchanges under flickering fairy lights, her hand resting on her notebook like she was trying to write down anything but the way I was making her feel.
And I wasn't reading poetry that night.
I was living it.