The Space to Stay

Amara stared at her phone long after Noah's message had settled into the screen, her fingers hovering over the keys, trembling slightly with indecision. The rain outside had softened into a mist, painting the city in delicate gray strokes that mirrored her uncertainty, blurring the edges of streetlights and distant headlights. It felt like the kind of night meant for unraveling things—memories, emotions, people—yet she couldn't bring herself to start.

"Noah: You don't have to figure it out all at once. Even if it takes time, I'll be here anyway."

It was too steady. Too simple. Too much. The words wrapped around her like the mist, warm but heavy, stirring a memory of her ex's voice cutting through a rain-soaked fight, demanding she speak when all she wanted was silence. She had built walls to protect herself from that weight, and now Noah's patience threatened to undo them. And maybe that was why it terrified her most of all—because part of her wanted to let him in.

She swallowed, thumb tapping against the side of the phone, debating between response and retreat. She could answer in the morning. Let herself breathe through it. Or maybe she was just stalling, hiding behind the rain's soft patter against the window.

The next day passed in a blur of edits and deadlines at Hawthorne & Finch, but the weight of Noah's message lingered beneath it all, a quiet hum she couldn't shake. At lunchtime, Edith raised an eyebrow as Amara pushed salad around on her plate with little enthusiasm, her fork scraping the plastic container.

"Okay, what's going on?" Edith asked, her voice cutting through the office hum.

"Nothing."

"Uh-huh." Edith pointed her fork at her. "You've got that look."

Amara sighed, setting her fork down. "What look?"

"The one that screams 'I got a text that fried my brain, and now I'm spiraling.'"

Amara rolled her eyes. "That's oddly specific."

"That's because I'm right." Edith smirked, leaning in. "Noah?"

She hesitated, then nodded, her stomach twisting at the admission. "He said he'd wait."

Edith blinked. "Okay… and?"

"That's it."

"That's it?" Edith huffed. "You look like you witnessed an existential crisis, and that's it?"

Amara exhaled, rubbing her temples. "It's just… I don't know how to do this. Letting someone stay. Not after—" She stopped, the memory of her ex's sharp words flashing briefly, a rain-drenched shadow.

Edith's expression softened. "You don't have to know how. You just have to try." Then, lowering her voice, she added, "Jasper mentioned Noah's ex once—said a project fell apart, and she walked out. Might be why he's so steady now."

The words hit like a quiet jolt, and Amara glanced at her phone, the screen dark. Lingering. It terrified her—and thrilled her, all at once.

Her phone buzzed against the table. A name. A message.

"Noah: Coffee later?"

Edith glanced at the screen and grinned. "Well, would you look at that? Your lifeline just texted."

Amara shot her a glare, but her lips twitched. "You're the worst."

"And yet, here we are."

By the time she reached the café, the rain had returned in slow, deliberate drops, tapping against her coat as she stepped inside. Noah was already there, sitting at their usual spot by the window, a book open in front of him. He looked up as she approached, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he leaned back slightly. "Thought you might bail."

She slid into the seat across from him, shaking her head. "You don't get rid of me that easily."

His lips twitched. "Good to know."

Silence settled, not uncomfortable, but waiting. Amara glanced at the book in his hands. "What are you reading?"

He flipped it closed, revealing the title—The Philosophy of Time. She huffed a quiet laugh. "That's on brand."

"You're one to talk."

She smiled, stirring her coffee. "You texted."

"You didn't."

She looked down at her cup. "I didn't know what to say."

Noah studied her for a moment, then nodded. "That's fair." His voice was steady, but his fingers tightened slightly around his mug, a hint of something beneath the calm.

She inhaled, steadying herself. "I'm not great at… this. Letting people linger. Not after everything." The memory of her ex's demands flashed again, tightening her chest.

"I know," he said, his tone soft but certain.

"But I—" She stopped, exhaling sharply. Then, quieter, "I want to try."

Noah didn't smile, didn't gloat. He just nodded, like he had always known she'd get there in her own time. "Okay, with a quiet relief."

Just that. Just okay.

Her phone buzzed on the table—a call from an unknown number. She glanced at it, her stomach sinking as she recognized the area code. Her ex. The interruption jolted her, a cold reminder of past pain, and she let it go to voicemail, her hands trembling slightly.

Noah watched, his expression shifting to concern. "You alright?"

She forced a nod, but the weight of silence pressed back in. "Yeah. Just… a ghost from the past."

He didn't push, just let the moment settle. And for the first time in a long while, okay felt like enough, the rain tapping her window a quiet witness to the fragile thread between them.