Silence felt safer.
That was the lie both of them were telling themselves.
Aira realized it late that night, lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers.
She wasn't calm.
She was contained.
There was a difference.
Truth pressed against her chest, heavy and restless, asking to be acknowledged.
If I don't say it now, she thought,
I'll start resenting him for not knowing.
And that scared her more than any argument ever could.
---
Reyhan reached the same conclusion from the opposite side of town.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, replaying every almost-sentence he'd swallowed that day.
He didn't want to be dramatic.
Didn't want to make things worse.
But silence had already done damage.
If I don't speak, he realized,
I'm choosing distance.
And he didn't want that.
---
They met the next morning by accident.
Or maybe not.
Near the lockers.
Early.
Quiet.
Aira saw Reyhan at the same time he saw her.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Aira stepped forward.
"We need to talk," she said.
Reyhan nodded immediately.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No pride.
They walked outside together, stopping near the empty courtyard where no one would overhear them.
Aira took a breath.
"I'm scared of becoming small," she said honestly.
"Not because of you—but because I keep adjusting instead of asking."
Reyhan listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't defend.
"I don't want to disappear into understanding," she continued.
"I don't want to be the easy one while things quietly pile up."
Reyhan swallowed.
"Thank you for saying that," he replied.
"Because I've been scared of being too much."
She looked at him.
"I hold back because I don't want to overwhelm you," he said quietly.
"And then I resent myself for not being honest."
That hit home.
"So we're both shrinking," Aira said softly.
"Just in opposite directions."
Reyhan nodded.
"I don't want to win arguments," he said.
"I want us to stay real."
Aira exhaled slowly.
"Then we have to stop protecting the silence," she replied.
"And start protecting the truth—even when it's uncomfortable."
Reyhan stepped closer—not touching, but present.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
"But I need you to tell me when you feel unseen."
"And I need you to tell me when you're scared," Aira replied.
They stood there, the weight lifting just enough to breathe.
Nothing was magically fixed.
But something important had shifted.
They weren't tiptoeing anymore.
They were standing.
RULE #55: Don't choose silence over truth.
Because quiet resentment does more damage
than honest discomfort ever could.