Micah hadn't written a poem in seven years.
He had tried—more times than he would admit—but each attempt ended in torn paper or silence. Words had once been his refuge. Then they became reminders. And so he stopped. It felt easier to abandon the language than to let it betray him again.
But tonight…
He sat in the shop's back room, surrounded by the scent of rain-soaked pages and cedar shelves, a fresh notebook in front of him. Alia had given it to him that afternoon, wrapped in twine with a tiny silver feather pressed into the cover.
He hadn't said anything when she handed it to him.
Just stared at it. Then at her.
Then kissed her hand.
Now, alone, he uncapped his pen.
And for the first time in years, the words came not like a flood or a scream—but like a slow breath.
He wrote:
> "You are not the first soft thing I've known.
But you are the first
That stayed when I crumbled."
> "Your laughter undoes the winter in my chest.
Your silence speaks in languages
I forgot I understood."
> "You looked at me, and somehow
I stopped being afraid of the blank page."
He stopped. Stared at the ink. Felt the heat in his chest.
This wasn't just about Alia.
It was because of her.
She hadn't asked him to write. Hadn't expected him to heal on command. She just sat beside him in the quiet. Gave him space. And filled it with patience.
And that, somehow, had been enough.
---
Upstairs
Alia curled on the attic bed, notebook open, her own poem halfway written. She didn't know if it was any good—she didn't care.
It wasn't about rhyme anymore. It was about realness.
The kind Micah had given her with every step closer.
She had felt the shift in him—after the kiss, after the trip, after the moment she caught him watching her as if she were something fragile, yes—but also beautiful.
The typewriter beside her clicked once.
She froze.
A single page sat there.
He'd crept up quietly, sometime between her thoughts and the ocean wind at the window.
She walked over and read it slowly:
> "I wrote for grief.
Then I wrote for survival.
But now I write for you."
> "If I give you a poem every week,
Will you promise not to run?"
— M.
Alia smiled. A tear slipped down her cheek and onto the paper.
She typed back:
> "Only if you promise
To keep writing me home."
— A.
---
That night, there were no more letters exchanged.
Just a knock at the attic door.
And when she opened it, Micah was there.
He didn't ask for anything. Didn't speak.
He just wrapped his arms around her, held her like something sacred—
And for the first time in both their lives, the quiet was enough.