Chapter Thirty two; Things left unspoken

For the first time in what felt like forever, Lila wasn't writing to forget. She wrote to remember.

In the weeks following their reconnection, life settled into a tentative rhythm. River would stop by with coffee in the mornings, sometimes staying long enough to capture photographs of the morning sun dancing across her skin. Lila would curl into her writing nook after he left, penning verses that felt lighter, freer—less about heartbreak and more about healing.

But even as the days began to string together like pearls, there were still knots in the thread—moments that caught her breath in her throat, little silences that reminded her of the distance they'd yet to cover.

It started with the boxes.

River had begun moving things into her apartment—little by little. A sketchpad here, a worn denim jacket there. He never asked. She never stopped him. But one afternoon, as she tripped over a crate of old camera gear in her hallway, she felt it.

Pressure.

He found her sitting on the couch, unmoving, hands in her lap.

"Hey," he said gently, crouching beside her. "You okay?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "I don't know."

River waited.

"I love having you here," she whispered. "But sometimes, I feel like I'm losing the space I rebuilt."

River's face softened. "You're not. I promise. I never meant to rush this."

She looked down. "It's not about you. It's me. I got used to standing on my own."

He reached for her hand. "Then let me stand beside you. Not in front. Not behind."

She met his eyes. "I need boundaries, River. I need to keep a space that's just mine."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. Then we make that space sacred. Yours. Always."

The next morning, she found a note on her desk:

> "I moved my things back to my loft. Still close. Still yours, if you want me. But this is your haven. I won't crowd it. I won't crowd you."

That night, they sat under the cherry lights with wine and laughter.

River had just finished showing her photos from his recent shoot when she leaned back against the cushions.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Why didn't you call when you left? Why a letter?"

River looked away, the flicker of lights catching the edge of his jaw.

"Because I was afraid that if I heard your voice, I wouldn't have gone through with it. And back then… leaving felt like the only honest thing I could do."

She studied him, quietly.

"I hated you for it," she said.

"I hated myself more," he replied.

She reached for his hand. "Don't leave again. Even if it gets messy. Even if I ask for space."

"I won't," he said. "Not unless you ask me to go."

Lila smiled, small and tired and real.

Their project began to blossom. She wrote new verses—short stories in verse form—while River matched them with photos from around the city. They called it Beneath the Cherry Lights, an homage not just to where they met, but who they'd become beneath them.

Their publisher loved it. The galleries wanted it. The world was hungry for more.

But success didn't stop the moments of doubt.

One evening, after a gallery meeting, Lila sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through old messages. One from James—the poet who had offered her a mentorship in Paris during River's absence—still lingered in her inbox.

He had been kind. Brilliant. A man who never asked for more than her time and her words.

But he had also been the one person who made her wonder what life looked like without River.

She typed a reply, fingers hovering.

> "Hey, I've been meaning to write. The exhibit is happening. And I'm happy—really. Hope Paris has been good to you. Maybe we'll meet again soon."

She hesitated, then deleted it.

Not because it was wrong—but because it no longer felt necessary.

River returned with takeout and a new print in hand. She tucked her phone away and smiled at him.

He saw something shift in her eyes and asked nothing.

Later, as they lay tangled in each other, Lila whispered, "I almost replied to someone I used to care about."

River's chest rose slowly. "Did you?"

"No."

He nodded.

"Not because I'm afraid," she continued. "But because I'm not the same girl who needed to answer everything."

River pulled her closer. "I'm not the same guy who thought love meant always being needed."

And in the silence that followed, there was peace. Not perfection. But peace.

Lila opened her notebook that night and wrote:

> "Sometimes, the bravest love isn't the one that starts with fire. It's the one that stays when everything inside you says run."

> "And sometimes, The most beautiful truths are the ones we whisper, When we are no longer afraid to be alone."

She closed the journal, heart steady.