They decided to talk.
Which already meant things were serious.
Not dramatic-serious.
Real-serious.
They met after school near the basketball court—neutral ground, open space, nowhere to hide.
Reyhan arrived first.
Hands in pockets.
Jaw tight.
Breathing slower than usual.
Aira approached a minute later, bag slung over one shoulder, expression calm but guarded.
They stood there for a second too long.
Then Reyhan spoke.
"I don't like how this feels," he said quietly.
Aira nodded. "Neither do I."
Silence again.
But this time, it wasn't avoidance.
It was restraint.
"I didn't mean to make you feel invisible," Reyhan said.
"And I hate that I did."
Aira swallowed.
"I know you didn't mean it. That doesn't make it hurt less."
"That's fair," he replied.
She hesitated, then added,
"I don't want to be the person who always understands while slowly disappearing."
That hit.
Reyhan's shoulders stiffened.
"I never asked you to disappear," he said.
"I know," Aira replied.
"But sometimes you don't notice when you take up space."
The words landed sharper than she meant.
Reyhan's eyes darkened—not angry, but wounded.
"So now I'm selfish?" he asked quietly.
Aira froze.
"That's not what I—"
"But that's what it sounded like," he interrupted.
The tension spiked.
This was the moment.
The dangerous one.
Aira took a breath—slow, deliberate.
"I'm not calling you selfish," she said firmly.
"I'm saying we need to learn how to see each other when we're not the center of the moment."
Reyhan looked away.
"I'm trying," he said.
"And sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, I still mess it up."
Aira's chest tightened.
"That's not true," she said quickly.
"But when you pull back instead of asking… it hurts."
He laughed softly—without humor.
"And when you go quiet instead of talking, it feels like you've already decided I failed."
That hurt her.
They stood there, both breathing heavier now.
This wasn't about who was right.
This was about timing.
Aira clenched her hands.
"I don't want to say something I'll regret."
Reyhan nodded.
"Me neither."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then Reyhan said something he'd been holding back—
"Sometimes I feel like I'm walking on a line I don't know the rules for."
Aira looked at him.
"And sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for you to notice I'm standing right next to you," she replied.
Silence crashed between them.
Not breaking.
Just heavy.
Reyhan finally spoke, voice lower.
"I don't want this to turn into resentment."
"Neither do I," Aira said.
"That's why we have to stop before we say the wrong thing."
Reyhan nodded once.
"Okay," he said.
"Then we pause here."
Aira exhaled, relief and ache mixing.
"Pause," she agreed.
They didn't hug.
Didn't touch.
They just stood there—two people choosing restraint over damage.
As Aira turned to leave, Reyhan said quietly—
"I'm not done trying."
She stopped.
Didn't turn back.
"I know," she replied.
"And neither am I."
That was enough.
For now.
RULE #53: Don't say things you can't take back.
Because some arguments don't need winners—
they just need patience before the damage becomes permanent.