The days after that didn't blur.
They unfolded.
Slowly. Intentionally. Almost suspiciously gentle.
I started waking up without bracing myself. No inventory of fears. No checklist of threats. Just the soft certainty that the day existed whether I was ready or not—and that was okay.
Riyan adjusted around that rhythm.
He stopped filling silences with plans.
Stopped treating calm like a temporary ceasefire.
One afternoon, I found him in the kitchen struggling with a simple task.
"You're holding the knife like it might betray you," I said, amused.
He glanced down, then sighed. "Everything in my life has."
I stepped closer, took the knife from his hand, and repositioned his grip.
"Vegetables don't have hidden agendas," I said. "Usually."
He watched carefully, mirroring the movement.
"Usually?" he asked.
I smiled. "Some onions are dramatic."
He laughed—actually laughed—and for a moment, the sound felt like proof of something solid.
---
Arjun was discharged two days later.
He showed up with a small bag, a larger grin, and a noticeable limp he refused to acknowledge.
"So," he said, dropping onto the couch with exaggerated care, "is this the part where we pretend everything's normal?"
"No," I replied. "This is the part where we redefine it."
He nodded approvingly. "Good. Because I don't remember what normal looked like either."
We ate together that night—simple food, no ceremony.
At some point, Arjun looked between us and said, "You know, for two people who survived a masterclass in manipulation, you're both terrible at pretending."
Riyan raised an eyebrow. "Is that a complaint?"
"An observation," Arjun replied. "And a compliment."
---
Later, when the apartment was quiet again, I opened the notebook.
Not to write the past.
But to record the present.
Riyan burned the rice and didn't apologize for it.
Arjun laughed without checking who might hear.
I felt safe and didn't question it.
The entries were small.
They mattered anyway.
Riyan watched from the doorway.
"You're documenting the absence of disaster," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "So my brain stops expecting it."
He nodded slowly. "Can I read it sometime?"
"Maybe," I said. "When it's no longer proof and just memory."
He accepted that without argument.
---
That night, as the city settled into its quieter hours, Riyan stood beside me at the window again.
"Do you ever feel guilty," he asked carefully, "that we're healing while everything else is still… unraveling?"
I thought about it.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "But then I remember—healing doesn't steal resources from justice. It fuels it."
He considered that.
"You're good at this," he said softly. "At making space without erasing accountability."
"I had to learn," I replied. "The hard way."
He looked at me then—not with gratitude, not with regret.
With recognition.
---
Before sleeping, I added one more line to the notebook.
Becoming isn't loud. It's repetitive. And that's how you know it's real.
I closed the book and set it aside.
Tomorrow would come.
Not as a test.
Not as a threat.
Just another day to practice being whole.
And for now—
That was enough.