The city didn't notice us.
That was the strangest part.
People hurried past with coffee cups and headphones, arguing on phones, laughing at jokes we couldn't hear. No one stared. No one whispered. No one pointed.
For the first time in a long time, anonymity felt like a gift.
We walked without speaking for a while.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because neither of us wanted to rush into filling the space.
At a small café on the corner, I stopped.
"This place," I said softly. "I used to come here before everything."
Riyan glanced at the sign, then at me.
"You want to go in?"
I nodded.
Inside, it smelled like roasted beans and old wood. The barista didn't recognize us. Didn't care. She just asked for an order.
"Two coffees," I said. "Black. No sugar."
Riyan raised an eyebrow. "You remember?"
"I always liked it bitter," I replied. "Sweet things come later."
He smiled at that—not wide, not proud. Thoughtful.
We took a small table near the window.
For a few minutes, it felt almost awkward. Like two people learning how to sit across from each other without a script.
"I don't know how to do this," Riyan admitted suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Be normal," he said. "I was trained to negotiate, control, anticipate threats. Not… exist."
I wrapped my hands around the warm cup.
"Then don't perform," I said. "Just be bad at it."
He laughed quietly. "You're saying I'm allowed to fail?"
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "So am I."
That seemed to settle something inside him.
"I keep waiting for the next crisis," he said. "Like peace is a trick."
I nodded slowly. "Trauma does that. It convinces you calm is temporary."
"And is it?" he asked.
I met his gaze.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But I'm tired of living like it's not allowed."
Outside, sunlight shifted across the pavement.
For a moment, everything aligned—no past dragging us backward, no future demanding proof.
Just now.
After coffee, we walked again.
At a bookstore, I went in without thinking. Ran my fingers along the spines like muscle memory guiding me.
Riyan watched quietly.
"You always loved stories," he said.
"Because they end," I replied. "Or at least pretend to."
He tilted his head. "And now?"
"Now I'm okay with one that doesn't know where it's going."
He picked up a book and handed it to me.
Blank pages.
A notebook.
"For what?" I asked.
"For whatever you remember," he said. "Or whatever you want to imagine instead."
I stared at it for a long second.
Then took it.
"Thank you," I said softly.
As evening crept in, we sat on a low wall overlooking the river.
The water moved steadily—unbothered by what it reflected.
"I don't know what we'll be to each other," I said finally.
Riyan didn't rush to answer.
"I know," he said. "And I'm not asking you to decide."
I looked at him, really looked this time.
"No hatred," I said. "No debt. No obligation."
He nodded. "Only consent."
That word mattered.
I stood, stretching, feeling tired in a good way.
"Tomorrow," I said, "I'll start writing again."
He smiled faintly. "And I'll start listening."
As we walked back toward a life that no longer needed armor, I realized something quietly, firmly, without fear:
Healing wasn't loud.
It didn't announce itself.
It simply showed up one ordinary moment at a time—
and asked if you were ready to stay.