The notebook stayed closed for most of the night.
Not because I didn't want to write—
but because for once, I didn't feel chased by words.
I placed it on the bedside table like a promise instead of a deadline.
Riyan moved around the apartment quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile calm we'd built through the day. He wasn't restless. He wasn't plotting.
He was… learning.
At some point, he stopped near the doorway.
"You don't have to stay here," he said gently. "Not tonight. Not ever."
I looked up from the window.
"I know," I replied.
The fact that he said it—
and meant it—
was enough.
"I'll sleep on the couch," he added quickly, like he didn't want to assume.
I smiled faintly. "You don't have to punish yourself."
He hesitated.
"I'm not," he said. "I'm respecting space."
That mattered too.
"Stay," I said simply. "Just… stay human."
He nodded.
---
Later, when the lights were dim and the city hummed softly beyond the glass, sleep came easily.
No nightmares.
No flashes.
No sudden panic clawing me awake.
Just rest.
I woke near dawn.
The sky was pale, undecided.
Riyan sat on the floor by the window, back against the wall, notebook open in his hands.
He wasn't writing.
Just reading the first page.
Which was still blank.
"You didn't sleep," I said softly.
He glanced back. "I did. Just… not long."
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to understand what it means," he said quietly, "to start without rewriting the past."
I sat beside him.
"You don't have to understand it," I said. "You just have to let it happen."
He closed the notebook and handed it to me.
"Then it should stay with you."
I opened it for the first time.
The page was still empty.
But it didn't scare me.
I picked up a pen.
Not to explain.
Not to confess.
Not to justify.
Just to begin.
I wrote one line.
Today, nothing bad happened—and I'm learning not to apologize for that.
Riyan read it over my shoulder.
His breath softened.
"That's… allowed?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I said. "Especially for us."
The sun rose slowly, filling the room with light that didn't feel intrusive—just warm, patient.
Outside, the world moved on.
Inside, something fragile and real settled into place.
Healing didn't arrive with answers.
It arrived with mornings that didn't hurt.
With silences that didn't threaten.
With the quiet understanding that survival was no longer the goal.
Living was.
And for the first time since my memory returned—
I didn't feel like I was catching up to life.
I felt like I was finally walking beside it.