"Some conversations don't happen with fireworks,
they unfold like petals—
soft, slow, honest."
Dear Diary,
I didn't go to school today.
I wrote a note for my teachers, told Jia I needed space,
and packed a small bag:
two notebooks, a sandwich,
and the letter I wrote for him last night
after we left the library.
It was more poem than letter.
More emotion than explanation.
But it said what I needed it to say:
"You don't have to be perfect for me to stay.
You don't have to smile all the time.
You just have to be real.
I've seen your pages.
Let's write new ones together."
I slid it under his door just after 9 a.m.,
heart thudding like war drums.
Then I sat on the bench outside the old music store,
watching clouds slow-dance across the sky,
pretending I wasn't waiting.
But I was.
And he came.
He wore that faded navy hoodie he always wears when he's unsure.
His hair was messy — not artfully, just real.
He sat beside me.
Silence.
Then:
"You read it?"
I nodded.
My voice felt like a glass cup I couldn't risk dropping.
"All of it," I said softly. "And I didn't stop liking you."
His shoulders dropped,
like a weight had been taken off.
"I was afraid you'd think I'm broken."
"I think you're still healing," I whispered.
"And that's not the same thing."
He told me everything.
About the fire.
About losing his mother and sister.
About moving in with his aunt,
who barely spoke and never smiled.
He told me how he found the old library by accident —
how it became his hiding place.
His breathing space.
He told me he hadn't meant to fall for me,
but I made him laugh when he hadn't laughed in months.
I cried.
Quietly.
Into my sleeve.
And he reached for my hand —
not dramatically, not like in movies.
Just… gently.
As if asking, Is it okay if I stay?
I let him.
We didn't kiss.
Not today.
But he walked me home,
hands still linked like we were learning a language we both knew halfway.
When we reached my gate, he said:
"I don't want to hide anymore."
I turned to him and smiled:
"Good. Because I want to know every version of you."
Dear Diary,
Some chapters aren't full of drama.
Some just breathe.
Like this one.
No fireworks.
No crashing waves.
Just two people
unfolding.
Like spring.
Wunor 🌷🤝✨