Chapter 4: The Collision of Souls

I met him on a Wednesday.

It wasn't storming or anything dramatic. The sky wasn't bleeding gold, and the universe didn't crack open to signal his arrival. It was just another ordinary day in a life I'd built around being numb.

But I swear, when he looked at me — really looked at me — something inside me shifted.

Like a door I didn't know existed quietly unlocking.

I was at a bookstore, clutching a self-help book I'd never actually read, pretending to browse because I couldn't face going home to an empty apartment. I dragged my fingers along the spines of novels, feeling the ridges of words I couldn't escape, my heart heavy from a week of pretending I was fine.

And then I heard him laugh.

Not the loud, careless laugh I hated — but something quieter, softer, like the sound of sunlight filtering through leaves. I turned without thinking, my eyes landing on a man crouched by the poetry section, holding a book like it was fragile.

He ran his fingers over the cover like he was memorizing the texture.

I should've looked away. But I didn't.

Because for the first time in years, I wasn't studying a man to see how he might break me. I was just… curious.

I don't even remember what stupid thing I said to him, only that he smiled like he already knew me. Like he could see through my skin, straight into the hollow parts of my chest, and wasn't afraid of the darkness living there.

His name was Kiaan.

He had eyes the color of storms, and when he tilted his head to listen to me talk, I felt like the most important person in the universe.

We ended up at a café, drinking coffee we didn't touch, unraveling ourselves in a way that felt reckless and inevitable.

I told him about my father.

He told me about his.

I told him I hated men.

He told me he didn't blame me.

I told him I didn't believe in love.

He told me he didn't believe that was true.

Hours blurred into night, and when the café closed, we just kept walking. The city lights turned everything gold, and my chest ached with the terrifying realization that I wanted to keep him.

That I didn't want him to become another ghost.

It should've scared me when he brushed my hair out of my face that first night.

It should've sent me running.

But the moment his fingers grazed my skin, the world tilted.

It wasn't fire.

It wasn't thunder.

It was the feeling of being touched like I wasn't broken.

Like I wasn't a collection of jagged pieces he needed to avoid —

But something whole he wanted to hold anyway.

His thumb lingered at my temple, and I swear I forgot how to breathe.

"You always hide behind your hair," he whispered, tucking a strand behind my ear like he'd done it a thousand times in another lifetime. "Why?"

Because I didn't want anyone to see me.

Because if they saw me, they might leave.

But Kiaan was already seeing me.

And he wasn't looking away.

We met every night after that.

The bookstore. The café. The park bench where he played songs on his guitar and hummed under his breath, the sound of his voice sinking into my skin like a balm.

He never tried to fix me.

He never promised he'd stay.

He just showed up.

Over and over again, until I stopped flinching when he touched me. Until I let myself lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of his existence press against mine like proof that I wasn't as alone as I thought

One night, it started raining, and we didn't run for cover.

We just stood there, drenched and laughing, until he suddenly cupped my face in his hands like I was something precious.

His fingers slid into my wet hair, tilting my head up, and the rain dripped from his jaw onto my lips, mingling with the salt of my tears.

Aria," he breathed, like my name was a prayer he didn't deserve to speak.

I wanted to kiss him.

I wanted to crawl inside his chest and live there.

But I froze — my body rigid, heart pounding, terrified of how much I wanted him.

He didn't get angry.

He didn't push.

He just pressed his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine, and whispered:

"I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in my life —

I wanted to believe it.

I went home that night and wrote until my hands cramped:

Some people don't knock on the door of your heart.

They slip in through the cracks and plant flowers in the wreckage.

Some people don't save you.

They sit beside you in the rubble until you save yourself.

And maybe love isn't a miracle.

Maybe it's a choice.

A choice to stay, even when the storm comes.