The Way We Stay

"Sometimes it's not the grand gestures—it's the way someone remembers your coffee order, your silence, and the way you look when you're lost in thought."

The university campus was draped in soft gold as the early signs of spring pushed their way through the final breath of winter. The trees lining the quad were beginning to blush with buds, and students sat on picnic blankets, trading textbooks for sunlit conversation.

Yuna sat on a patch of grass near the east library steps, a thermos of tea in her lap and her laptop open. Her fingers danced slowly across the keys—pausing every so often, rereading, deleting, breathing.

"You look like someone halfway between a poem and a panic attack," Mina said, flopping onto the grass beside her.

Yuna laughed. "That's… alarmingly accurate."

Mina leaned back on her elbows, sunglasses slipping down her nose. "Still working on the submission piece?"

"No," Yuna said. "I turned it in last week."

Mina sat up fast. "YOU DID? Without telling me?"

"I needed to do it in silence," Yuna said. "I think I wanted to prove to myself that I didn't need validation to finish it."

Mina stared at her, then smiled. "I love this version of you."

Yuna looked away shyly. "I'm still figuring her out."

"Let her bloom. We'll all adjust."

That afternoon, Yuna stopped by Mocha Moon.

Eli was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He looked up when she entered, eyes softening immediately.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied.

He handed her a cup before she could even ask.

"You remembered?"

"Vanilla chai, oat milk, light cinnamon. You're a routine girl."

She took the cup and smiled, eyes warm. "And you?"

"Black coffee. No sugar. Bitter but honest."

She leaned over the counter slightly. "You're not as bitter as you pretend to be."

"I'm sweet on occasion."

"I've noticed."

They sat in the back corner of the café—her favorite booth, next to the window. A jazz track played softly in the background, the light outside golden and sleepy.

"I've been thinking," Eli said, stirring his drink slowly.

"Dangerous."

He smiled. "I want to show you something. This weekend."

"What is it?"

"You'll see."

She raised a brow. "That's cryptic."

"It's not dramatic. Just… something personal. From before."

Yuna studied him for a moment. "Is it going to break my heart?"

"Maybe. But only a little."

She reached across the table and rested her fingers near his. "Okay. I'll come."

That weekend, Eli picked her up early Saturday morning. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, and the sky was painted in a watercolor wash of violet and pink. He wore a gray hoodie and jeans, and for once, he looked relaxed. Lighter.

They drove in comfortable silence—music low, windows cracked.

"Where are we going?" Yuna asked as they passed the city limits.

"An old practice studio. It's about forty minutes out. I used to come here when I wanted to get away from home. It's where I wrote most of my songs… before I stopped."

Yuna looked at him, quiet and full of thought. "You don't owe me this."

"I know. But I want you to know that part of me. Even if it's old. Even if it's messy."

She nodded. "Okay."

The building was tucked between warehouses and train tracks—a converted industrial space that had been turned into art rooms and rehearsal halls. Eli led her inside, keys already in hand.

"How do you still have a key?" she asked.

"I helped them renovate. They let me keep one."

He pushed open the studio door. It smelled faintly of dust and worn leather. The room was simple—piano in one corner, old microphone stand in the other, mismatched chairs and a cracked mirror along one wall.

Eli walked to the piano and touched the keys like greeting an old friend.

"I used to play here with my brother," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yuna didn't speak.

"We'd stay until midnight. Writing. Arguing. Laughing. Sometimes crying. It was our space. Before everything fell apart."

He sat on the bench. Pressed a few tentative notes.

"Do you want to play something?" she asked.

He nodded once.

And then he did.

It was different from last time. Deeper. Sadder. But more open.

He played a song that didn't seem to end, one that carried memory in every note. Yuna sat quietly, heart full and throat tight.

When he stopped, he didn't look at her.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He turned then. "For what?"

"For letting me see it."

They drove back in the afternoon. Neither spoke for a long time, not because there was nothing to say—but because what needed to be said had already passed between them, wordless and sacred.

At a stoplight, Eli reached over and held her hand.

Yuna didn't let go.

That evening, Yuna and Mina went out for ramen.

The place was packed with students, loud with chatter and clinking bowls. They found a spot by the window, steam rising between them.

"So," Mina said, mouth full, "how was your mysterious adventure?"

Yuna smiled. "Beautiful. And hard. And important."

"That's a lot of adjectives for one day."

"It's a lot of emotions for one person."

Mina leaned in. "Do you love him?"

Yuna froze.

She stared into her bowl for a long moment.

"I don't know yet," she said. "But I think I'm getting close. And that's… terrifying."

Mina reached across and tapped her knuckles. "It's also brave. You're doing good, Yuna."

"Thanks."

"And when he inevitably breaks your heart, I will key his car and still pretend it wasn't me."

Yuna laughed, and suddenly, everything felt lighter.

Later, in bed, Yuna stared at the ceiling.

She picked up her journal and wrote:

"Love isn't a lightning strike.Sometimes it's a quiet tide, rising inch by inchuntil you realize you've been standing in it all along."