The days slipped by, each one heavier than the last.
Klaus clung to every small sign — a smile, a lingering glance, a message typed and then deleted. He
read and reread Tulip's last texts, searching for meaning in her pauses and silences.
At night, he lay awake imagining the life they could have — simple, imperfect, but theirs. He dreamed of
quiet mornings tangled in sheets, whispered poems over coffee, the soft warmth of her hand in his.
But dawn always brought the cold reality: Tulip was slipping further away.
Tulip wrestled with her heart in secret. She wanted to reach out, to hold Klaus close and say the words
she couldn't speak aloud — that she loved him, that she feared losing him more than anything.
Yet the fear of drowning in the intensity of love — and the shadows of past betrayals — made her pull
back, even as it tore her apart.
One evening, Klaus found her sitting alone in the park, her notebook open but untouched. The streetlights
painted golden halos around her, making her look like a fragile angel caught in a storm.
He sat beside her, careful not to break the fragile silence.
"You don't have to say anything," he said softly. "I just want to be here."
Tulip's eyes met his, filled with both longing and sorrow.
"I'm scared, Klaus," she confessed. "Scared that if I let myself fall completely, I might never find my way
back."
Klaus reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"We'll find our way together," he promised. "No matter how slow, no matter how hard."
For a moment, the world stood still — two souls teetering on the edge of hope and fear, longing and
doubt