Trust does not arrive loudly. It slips in quietly, disguised as comfort. Luca became part of my routine before I noticed it happening. Not in a dramatic way nothing intense, nothing that demanded explanation. Just presence. Consistent, unforced presence. The kind that feels harmless because it doesn't ask for anything.
Some mornings, his message was the first thing I saw. Good morning. Hope today treats you gently.
Other times, hours would pass before he checked in, as though he understood the value of space. That balance made it easier to relax. Easier to forget why I had once been careful.
I never told him about the rules I had built for myself. The quiet promises I made after watching girls in the ghetto reduced to stories told by careless mouths. I had learned early that trust, once misplaced, didn't break loudly it dissolved slowly, leaving nothing solid to stand on.
With Luca, I told myself this was different.
This was distance.
This was maturity.
This was harmless conversation.
Still, I watched myself closely.
Our chats deepened, but subtly. He asked thoughtful questions about my dreams, my fears, the version of myself I was becoming. He listened without interrupting, without correcting, without making my words feel small.
"You've changed," he said one night.
"In a good way."
"People change," I replied.
"They have to."
"I know," he said. "But some changes come from strength."
That word again.
I wondered what he saw when he looked at me now. The girl he once tried to talk to in passing? Or the woman shaped by years of silence and restraint?
Sometimes, the conversations stretched late into the night. Not flirtatious. Not romantic. Just honest.
"You're different from how people talk about you," he said once.
My chest tightened.
"I don't care how people talk."
"I know," he replied. "That's what I respect."
Respect. Trust. Strength.
They were words I wanted to believe.
There were moments I pulled back short replies, delayed responses testing whether he would react. He didn't. He stayed steady. Unoffended. Patient.
That patience softened something in me.
One evening, after hours of conversation, he sent a voice note. His voice was calm, familiar, carrying a warmth text couldn't fully hold.
"I just want you to know," he said, "I'm not here to rush anything. I'm not trying to prove anything. I just… enjoy talking to you."
I replayed it twice.
Enjoy.
Not want.
Not need.
That distinction mattered. I replied with a short voice note of my own, keeping my tone light. "I enjoy talking too."
And for the first time, I didn't feel the need to guard every word.
But trust has a way of growing roots before you realize the soil is unstable.
The questions became more personal still gentle, still respectful but closer to places I rarely opened.
"What scares you the most?"
"What makes you pull away?"
"What do you want that you don't say out loud?"
I answered carefully. Truth wrapped in restraint. I didn't tell him about the overheard conversations.
About the fear of becoming a topic. About how silence had once felt safer than affection.
I told myself there would be time.
One night, after a particularly deep conversation, he said something that stayed with me long after the chat ended.
"You know," he wrote, "I think sometimes people misunderstand you because you don't let them close enough to see you."
I stared at the screen.
"Maybe," I typed. "Or maybe some people don't deserve that closeness."
He didn't argue.
"I hope one day," he replied, "you'll feel safe enough to let someone see all of you."
I didn't respond immediately.
Because somewhere between his patience and his reassurance, I felt the line shift not crossed, but approached.
And for the first time in years, I wondered what it would feel like to trust someone without fear.
I fell asleep that night with my phone beside me, unaware that the very calm I was learning to rely on would later become the sharpest contrast to the pain waiting ahead.
Because trust doesn't warn you before it begins to cost.
After that night, nothing changed on the surface.
That was the most confusing part.
Luca didn't suddenly say more. He didn't shift the tone or ask questions that demanded answers. The conversations continued the way they always had steady, familiar, unassuming. And yet, I felt myself noticing the absences more than the presence.
When he didn't reply for hours, I told myself it didn't matter. I reminded myself that people had lives, time zones, responsibilities. That silence didn't carry meaning unless you gave it one.
Still, I checked.
Casually, I said. Thoughtlessly. Just a glance at the screen to see if he was online. Just curiosity. Nothing else.
When he appeared, relief came too easily.
I didn't like that.
Our chats settled into a rhythm that felt almost domestic, though nothing about it was named. Short messages during the day. Longer conversations at night. Sometimes we spoke about nothing at all random observations, passing thoughts, things that didn't require vulnerability.
Other times, the conversations dipped deeper without warning.
"I like how you think," he said once. "You don't rush to fill silence."
"I'm used to it," I replied.
"I noticed," he said. "You sit with things."
That made me uncomfortable. Not because it was wrong, but because it was true.
He was paying attention in a way that felt deliberate.
There were moments I went quiet on purpose, testing the space. I wanted to see if he would fill it, demand explanation, or disappear. He did none of those things.
Instead, hours later, a simple message would come.
"I hope today wasn't too heavy."
No pressure. No accusation.
That kind of consideration made it harder to maintain distance. It blurred the line between politeness and care, between friendliness and something that required awareness.
Sometimes, he'd tell me about his day fragments of his life where I wasn't present. Work frustrations. People I didn't know. Places I would never see. I listened, responding thoughtfully, noticing how easily his world began to feel familiar despite the distance.
"You're easy to talk to," he said one evening.
"So are you," I replied.
"I don't feel like I have to explain myself," he added.
That was when I felt the subtle shift again. The sense that I was becoming more than a listener. More than a distraction.
I told myself that didn't mean anything.
But when he went offline unexpectedly one night, I found myself replaying our last conversation, searching for something unfinished. Something unresolved. When he came back hours later with an apology, I responded too quickly.
"It's fine," I said.
And it was. But the speed of my response bothered me.
He started asking questions that leaned closer without crossing the line.
"What makes you pull away when things feel good?"
"What do you usually do when someone wants to get close?"
"What would make you feel safe?"
Each question was wrapped in gentleness, framed as curiosity, not expectation. I answered in pieces, careful not to reveal too much.
"I take my time," I said.
"I observe," I said.
"I don't forget easily," I said.
He didn't ask what I meant by that last one.
And I was grateful.
Because forgetting had never been the problem.
Remembering was.
I still carried the past with me not as an open wound, but as a quiet reference point. The rules I had made in the ghetto. The reasons I had stayed distant. The things I had overheard and never confronted. They sat at the back of my mind, unspoken but present.
Whenever Luca said something kind, something reassuring, I measured it against those memories.
Whenever he leaned closer, I leaned back just enough to remind myself why I had learned caution in the first place.
But the truth was harder to ignore now.
I missed him when he wasn't there.
Not in a way I could explain. Not in a way I would admit out loud. Just a subtle restlessness when the familiar rhythm broke. A quiet disappointment I brushed aside.
"This is just habit," I told myself.
"This doesn't mean anything."
Yet habits shape attachment, whether we name them or not.
One night, after a long pause in conversation, he sent a message that stayed with me.
"I don't need anything from you," he wrote. "I just like being here."
I stared at the screen, unsure why my chest felt tight.
Because being there was never neutral.
Presence had weight.
And even though I told myself I was still holding the past firmly enough to protect myself, I could feel it loosening its grip—just slightly.
Not enough to fall.
Not yet.
But enough to blur the lines I had once drawn so clearly.