Wildflowers and What-Ifs

The next morning, Farah found a notebook on the steps of the porch. Her name was written across the front in Nael's sharp, looping handwriting.

She opened it, expecting sketches or travel notes—but instead found something else entirely.

"Day 12: I don't know why I'm still here. Maybe because the air smells like wild mint. Maybe because her eyes get darker when she's hiding something. Maybe I just want to stop running."

Each page was a quiet confession. Half-formed thoughts. Half-held hopes. Bits of his heart, scribbled out and left for her.

She sat on the porch swing, turning the pages slowly. Her fingers lingered on one line:

"She makes stillness feel like movement. Like maybe home isn't a place—but a person who sees you."

Farah closed the book, breath shallow.

That afternoon, she found Nael by the stream that curved behind the orchard. He was barefoot, sleeves rolled up, skimming stones across the water.

"You left something," she said, holding the notebook out.

He turned, eyes uncertain. "Did you read it?"

"Yes."

A pause. Then: "Are you mad?"

"No."

Another pause.

"It scared me," she admitted. "How honest it was."

Nael walked up to her, close enough to hear the river and her heartbeat.

"I didn't come here looking for you, Farah," he said. "But maybe I found what I didn't know I needed."

She looked down. "And when the next wild thing calls?"

He took her hand. "Then I'll take you with me. Or I'll stay. Or we'll build something in between."

She didn't answer, not with words.

Instead, she stepped closer and rested her head against his chest. The orchard swayed gently around them. The sky was wide. And everything felt like it could start here.

With roots. With risk.

With them