Silence was supposed to be peaceful.
That's what people said when things finally stopped exploding—
when arguments ended, when chaos settled, when nothing hurt out loud anymore.
But Aira learned something important that day.
Silence could also be avoidance wearing a calm face.
She noticed it in the little things.
Reyhan still walked beside her, but he didn't talk as much.
He still waited, but he didn't tease.
He still looked at her—but like he was measuring every word before letting it exist.
Too careful.
Too controlled.
And somehow… farther away.
During study hall, they sat at the same table, books open, shoulders almost touching.
Almost.
Aira tapped her pen once.
Twice.
"You're doing it again," she said quietly.
Reyhan didn't look up. "Doing what?"
"Pulling back without leaving," she replied.
"It's worse than actually walking away."
That got his attention.
He closed his book slowly. "I'm trying to give you space."
"I didn't ask for space," Aira said.
"I asked for honesty."
Reyhan leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling.
"What if honesty makes things messy?" he asked.
Aira turned fully toward him.
"What if silence makes them disappear?"
That landed.
Hard.
Reyhan exhaled through his nose. "I don't know how to talk when I'm not sure."
"Then say that," Aira replied.
"Say you're unsure. Say you're scared. Don't just go quiet and hope I understand."
He finally met her eyes.
"I'm scared," he said.
"Of saying the wrong thing.
Of needing you more than I should."
Aira's chest tightened.
"You're allowed to need me," she said softly.
"I didn't choose you halfway."
That sentence cracked something open.
Reyhan swallowed. "I'm not good at this."
"I know," Aira replied gently.
"But you're here. And that counts."
The bell rang, sharp and sudden.
Students packed their bags.
Reyhan hesitated. "Are you… upset with me?"
Aira shook her head. "I'm frustrated. There's a difference."
"Will you walk with me?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"But talk while we do."
They walked through the hallway together.
Reyhan didn't perform.
Didn't joke.
Didn't hide behind silence.
"I don't want to lose what this is," he said quietly.
"And sometimes that fear makes me disappear without moving."
Aira nodded.
"I don't need perfect words," she said.
"I just need you present."
He slowed his pace.
Matched hers.
"I'm here," he said.
"Even when I don't know what to say."
Aira smiled faintly.
"That's enough," she replied.
They reached the staircase.
This time, neither of them rushed away.
Silence returned—but it felt different now.
Not heavy.
Not defensive.
Just… shared.
RULE #37: Don't let silence become distance.
Because when words feel hard,
staying present matters more than saying them right.