ARIA'S POV.
Hope is a dangerous thing.
It doesn't announce itself loudly. It slips in through cracks you thought were sealed shut, sits quietly in your chest, and waits to see if you'll notice. I noticed it the moment I stepped out of the hospital.
The night air was cool, sharp against my skin. I stood there longer than necessary, my arms wrapped around myself, grounding my breathing. The image of Ethan—pale, fragile, human—refused to leave my mind.
I hated that it stayed.
Back at my apartment, everything felt too still. The lavender scent Ella loved suddenly felt overwhelming, like it was asking me questions I didn't have answers to. I dropped onto my bed without changing, staring at the ceiling the way I had so many nights before.
But this time was different.
This time, I wasn't replaying what he did.
I was replaying who he might be becoming.
That scared me more.
Ella came by the next morning, coffee in hand, eyes already searching my face.
"You saw him," she said. Not a question.
I nodded.
"And?"
"And nothing changed," I said slowly. "But something shifted."
She sat beside me. "That's not the same thing."
I knew.
Ethan didn't text. Didn't call. Days passed, and I realized he was keeping his word in the only way that mattered—by not reaching for me when he wanted to. That restraint echoed louder than apologies ever could.
On campus, I heard things.
That he'd taken a leave from certain activities.
That he'd stopped hanging around the same crowd.
That he'd been quieter. Focused.
I didn't ask for confirmation.
I watched.
One afternoon, I saw him from across the quad. He was walking slowly, still recovering, a small notebook tucked under his arm. He didn't see me. And for once, I didn't move to hide.
I just stood there.
Watching a boy I once loved learn how to be careful.
Our eyes met briefly before he looked away first.
That… mattered.
That night, I wrote in my journal again. Not about pain. Not about betrayal.
About boundaries.
About how hope didn't mean returning to old patterns. How forgiveness, if it ever came, would have to grow roots before it reached light.
I wasn't ready to let him back in.
But I was ready to stop pretending I felt nothing.
And maybe that was the thread of hope—thin, fragile, easily broken—but real.
Not a promise.
Just a possibility.
And for now, that was enough.