chapter 13; The Quiet That Followed

The world outside continued to move, oblivious to the shift that had occurred between them. But Sky felt it in her skin, her breath, her bones. Something had cracked open the night before—a softness, a surrender—and it hadn't closed up again. She didn't want it to.

The morning after their poetry night, Ayana kissed her forehead before they parted ways, just outside the campus café. It wasn't long or showy. It was quick, like a shared secret. But the fact that it happened there, in daylight, in public, unraveled something deep within Sky. No one gasped. No one threw words. But she felt eyes. And her body remembered every old bruise that wasn't there anymore.

"Text me when you're in class," Ayana said.

Sky nodded, smiling like her lips couldn't remember how not to. "Okay."

But as she turned, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag, a whisper floated from a nearby bench. Low. Sharp.

"Guess she's really gone full freak now."

It was meant to be just out of earshot. Meant to be cowardly.

Sky stopped walking.

Her shoulders froze mid-breath, and her knees threatened to buckle. Not because the insult was new—it wasn't—but because it came after a night where she had been seen. Loved. Real.

And now this.

She didn't turn. She just walked away, jaw clenched, vision blurry.

Sky sat at the farthest edge of the lecture hall, her pen still and notebook open but untouched. Her professor was explaining Marxist theory in literature, but the words ran over her like rain on a window. Distant. Cold.

She had made progress. She knew she had. But the word "freak" burrowed itself into her thoughts like a parasite. It reminded her of high school locker rooms, of bathroom graffiti, of her father's voice on the day he left: "I don't even know what you are anymore."

Ayana had promised they'd meet after class. Just a walk. Just a breath of space. But for the first time since they started…Sky wasn't sure she could look her in the eye.

She left before the lecture ended.

Ayana found her two hours later, sitting under their old tree behind the art building—the one they hadn't visited in weeks. Sky's arms were wrapped around her knees, and her hoodie swallowed her small frame. Ayana's shadow stretched across the grass as she approached.

"I was worried."

Sky didn't move. "I heard someone say something this morning. About me. About us."

Ayana sat beside her, knees drawn to her chest. "Want to talk about it?"

"I don't think talking will fix it. I just…I felt like I lost something. That little peace I had from last night—like it got snatched right out of my hands."

Ayana was quiet for a while. The breeze rustled the grass between them.

"You didn't lose it, Sky. Someone tried to take it. That's different."

Sky looked up, her eyes rimmed red but dry. "Why does it still feel like shame?"

Ayana didn't flinch. "Because shame is familiar. But just because it feels comfortable doesn't mean it belongs to you."

Sky exhaled shakily, and Ayana reached out—slowly—linking their fingers.

"Let me hold your peace when you forget how to," she whispered. "We can pass it back and forth."

Sky broke. Tears leaked out in silence, warm against her skin as they fell. Ayana said nothing more. She just stayed, arms wrapped around Sky as her walls thinned into something softer.

Later that evening, Ayana invited her over.

"No pressure," she said. "Just dinner. Something warm."

Sky hesitated, but followed. When Ayana cooked, she moved with a calm rhythm—chopping garlic with patience, tasting the soup three times, adding a bit of ginger just because Sky once said she liked the way it stung the throat before soothing it.

The lights were dimmed low. Jazz hummed from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner. Everything was soft. Intentional.

As they ate, Sky spoke more.

"Do you think we're…setting ourselves up for pain?"

Ayana paused mid-spoonful. "We might be. But that's what loving anyone means."

Sky chewed on the thought more than the food. "I think part of me still believes I'm not allowed to be happy."

"Then I'll keep reminding you until you forget that belief ever existed."

Sky smiled, even as her eyes filled again.

That night, they didn't undress each other. There was no urgency, no spark waiting to be lit. There was just quiet, and the weight of being alive together.

Sky lay on Ayana's bed while Ayana graded papers on the floor, her back against the nightstand. The television murmured a muted documentary, and Sky drifted in and out of drowsiness.

"Do you think people like me deserve peace?" Sky asked suddenly.

Ayana didn't look up. "People like you?"

Sky turned her head to the side. "People who are complicated. People who change. People who used to hide."

Ayana finally looked up, her expression unreadable. "You think peace is only for people who don't know pain?"

"I think peace is…rare. And I don't want to lose it again."

Ayana rose and crossed the room. She lay beside her, brushing strands of Sky's hair behind her ear.

"You deserve the kind of peace that sits in your bones, Sky. Not the kind you have to earn. The kind that finds you because you exist."

Sky's breath hitched. "Even with all the mess?"

"Especially because of it."

The following week wasn't easy.

The message on Sky's locker.

The screenshot of her Instagram post with Ayana, shared in a cruel Discord thread she thought was private.

The anonymous emails.

But Ayana stayed. Not like a savior, but like a constant.

They studied in quiet corners of the library. Walked down the back corridors of the campus gardens. Ate fruit in the dark of Ayana's apartment, barefoot and exhausted but content.

Sky began writing again.

She didn't show Ayana the new poems at first. They were too raw. Too new. But Ayana knew. She always knew.

"Your hands have ink on them again," Ayana said one morning, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Sky smiled. "It feels like breathing."

But not all tension came from outside.

One afternoon, as Ayana packed her bag after a seminar, her department head approached. A quiet man. Stern.

"Ayana."

"Yes?"

"I've had a few…concerns come across my desk. About a student of yours. One you've been seen with, outside of class."

Ayana's spine straightened. "Is this an official inquiry?"

"Not yet," he said carefully. "But it's being noticed. You might want to be…more discreet."

Ayana's face didn't change. But inside, her heart pounded.

"She's no longer in my class," Ayana said, evenly. "There's no academic conflict."

"I'm just saying—this institution values professional boundaries. Especially in a climate where scrutiny is high."

He walked away, leaving the unspoken warning hanging in the air.

Ayana exhaled. Her hands trembled only slightly.

That night, she told Sky everything.

"I don't want to be a secret," Sky said softly.

"You're not," Ayana replied.

"But I don't want to be the reason your career is at risk."

"You're not that either."

Sky looked at her. "Then what am I?"

Ayana's voice cracked open like dawn. "You're the one thing I want to fight for."

They made love that night not out of desperation or sadness—but as a vow.

Slow. Intentional. Breathing into each other like scripture.

Sky kissed every inch of Ayana's shoulder. Ayana held her like the wind might try and steal her away.

And when they lay still, skin against skin, Sky whispered, "If this is wrong, I don't want to be right."

Ayana smiled into the crook of her neck. "It's not wrong. It's just not easy."

They slept tangled.

A few days later, Sky posted a new poem.

No image. No caption. Just words.

I used to think love

was a locked door I had no key for—

a whispered thing, always fleeing.

But then she said my name

like a lighthouse does—

loud, and quiet, and always

leading me home.

The comments came fast. Some kind. Some cruel.

But Sky didn't delete it.

Didn't hide.

She turned off her phone. Turned toward Ayana.

And whispered, "Let's keep blooming, even if the world stays dark."

Ayana kissed her hand. "We already are."