Ammar's eyes were red.
Not from crying—but from holding too much in for too long.
His jaw was clenched tightly, the muscle twitching as if he were forcing himself to stay still. His breathing was uneven, shallow at first, then deliberately slowed. He stood a few steps away from Silvi, close enough to reach her if he wanted to—but far enough to show restraint.
It wasn't just fear of losing her.
It was the older fear beneath it.
The fear of being alone again.
The feeling came like a wave—sudden, heavy, suffocating. A memory of empty nights. Of conversations that ended without closure. Of loving someone too late.
For a moment, Ammar felt himself teeter on the edge of saying the wrong thing.
But he stopped.
Because the last thing he wanted was to become the reason Silvi pulled away.
He took a deep breath, grounding himself, then stepped closer—slowly, deliberately.
"Silvi," he called softly.
She flinched before turning around.
Her face was pale, her eyes still wet, as if she had been crying longer than she wanted anyone to know. She wiped at the corner of her eye, then looked at him with guarded calm.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
There was no anger in her voice.
But there was distance.
Ammar swallowed hard. "I was worried. I couldn't reach you."
The words sounded simple. Too simple for what he'd been feeling.
Before Silvi could respond, another voice cut through the space between them.
"Nissa… think about it again."
Ammar froze.
He knew that tone.
Ilham.
Ammar didn't turn immediately. He didn't interrupt. Instead, he waited—because whatever this was, it wasn't his place to control.
Silvi turned slightly, her shoulders stiffening.
"Mas," she said coldly, without looking back, "I've already told you. Don't repeat this."
Ilham sighed, the sound heavy with things left unresolved. "I just want you to be happy."
"I'm trying," Silvi replied. Her voice was firm now. Final.
Ilham's gaze flicked briefly toward Ammar. Not hostile. Not welcoming either. Just… acknowledging reality.
Then he stood.
"If that's the case," he said quietly, "I'll take my leave."
No accusations.
No dramatic words.
He walked away without another glance.
Leaving behind a past that hadn't fully healed—but no longer demanded to be held.
Silvi and Ammar sat down on the long wooden bench nearby.
Not too close.
Not touching.
Yet the air between them felt heavier than before.
"I was wrong," Ammar said after a while. His voice was low, careful. "I panicked. I thought I was losing you."
Silvi didn't answer right away.
She studied him—his rigid posture, the way his hands rested on his knees as if he were afraid to reach out.
"You're not losing me," she said at last. "But I don't want to be controlled either."
The words weren't sharp.
They were honest.
Ammar nodded slowly. "I don't want to be someone you fear," he said. "If I cross a line… stop me."
Silvi inhaled deeply. Her chest trembled before she could steady it.
"I'm scared too," she admitted. "Not of you."
She paused.
"But of my own feelings."
Ammar looked at her—not with possession, not with desperation—but with something quieter.
Understanding.
"We'll go slowly," he said. "If you step back, I'll step back too."
Silvi lowered her gaze.
It wasn't a grand promise.
No dramatic declarations.
No vows.
And precisely because of that…
it felt real.
They walked together to a small food stall by the beach. The sound of waves blended with the clatter of plates and distant laughter. They ordered simply, ate quietly.
No hands held.
No kisses exchanged.
Just two people sitting side by side, equally afraid—and choosing not to run.
As dusk fell, Ammar stood.
"I'm heading home," he said. "Be careful."
Silvi nodded.
As Ammar walked away, she watched his back grow smaller against the fading light.
And something inside her shifted.
Healthy love, she realized, wasn't about holding on tightly.
It wasn't about surveillance, or fear, or proving anything.
It was about daring to give space—
even when you were afraid of losing.
And because of that…
her feelings became even more real.