Chapter 5: The Fear of Falling

Falling in love felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

I wanted to jump.

I wanted to run.

And some days, I wanted to throw myself off just to prove I could survive the crash.

I don't know when it shifted.

Maybe it was the night Kiaan brushed my hair out of my face like I wasn't something fragile. Or the way he texted me good morning every day, like he was reminding me he still existed, still chose to be in my life.

Or maybe it was the way he listened.

Really listened — not just to my words, but to the ones I couldn't say.

When I told him I hated my father, he didn't tell me to forgive.

When I told him I hated myself, he didn't tell me I was wrong.

I wanted to tell him how people always made me believe Love is conditional 

He just stayed.

Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

One evening, we were lying on my living room floor, the coffee table pushed aside, pizza boxes scattered like remnants of a war we didn't care to clean up. Kiaan was playing with the hem of my sweatshirt, his fingers skimming the fabric, sending small shocks through my skin.

It had been weeks since we met, and I still flinched whenever he touched me.

Not because I didn't want him to.

Because I wanted him to too much

You're quiet today," he said, tilting his head to study me.

I shrugged, chewing my lip. "Just tired."

He didn't buy it.

Instead of pressing, he grabbed my hand and started tracing shapes into my palm with his finger. Stars, hearts, question marks. It felt stupidly intimate, like he was writing messages into my skin.

I let him.

Because as much as touch terrified me — it also made me feel alive.

"What if you leave?"

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Kiaan paused, his finger resting on the center of my palm like he was holding my entire world in his hand.

"Why would I leave?" he asked, voice low, careful.

I blinked at the ceiling, my throat burning. "Because people do."

He shifted closer, propping himself up on his elbow so he could see my face. "I'm not people," he said, like it was a fact written into the universe.

But that's what scared me.

Because people like him — kind people, gentle people — they were the ones who wrecked you the most when they finally walked away.

That night, I wrote another poem:

I don't know how to love without bracing for impact.

I don't know how to hold something beautiful —

Without already mourning its loss.

I am a house with the doors locked,

The windows boarded up,

And the word "LEAVE" scratched into the walls.

But he keeps knocking.

And I don't know how much longer I can pretend I don't want to let him in.

The next time I saw Kiaan, he brought me flowers.

I laughed — because who still brought flowers in real life?

"These are for your inner child," he said, handing them to me with a lopsided grin. "The part of you that never got them from your dad."

I wanted to punch him.

I wanted to kiss him.

Instead, I put the flowers in a jar and cried in the bathroom while he pretended not to hear me.

Love wasn't supposed to be this gentle.

It was supposed to be chaotic, painful, conditional. A cycle of hope and abandonment.

But Kiaan stayed when I cried.

He stayed when I snapped at him for no reason.

He stayed when I couldn't say "I love you" back.

And the more he stayed, the more I hated him for it.

Because if he stayed any longer —

I wouldn't survive if he left.