chapter 15; A Love That Speaks in Silence

The late afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows of Lina's apartment, casting kaleidoscopic colors across the floor. Ayana stood barefoot on the cool tiles, a towel wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was damp, clinging to her neck, and her eyes were lost in the soft hum of being here. She was still getting used to it—this feeling of being wanted without having to earn it.

Lina sat on the couch, legs folded underneath her, sipping warm chamomile tea from a cracked porcelain mug. She watched Ayana like someone trying to memorize sunlight before it disappeared. Every movement, every breath—she kept it close.

"I still don't know how I got here," Ayana whispered as she walked over, her voice a fragile ribbon of truth.

Lina set the mug down on the table and reached for her. "You walked. All by yourself."

Ayana lowered herself beside her, resting her cheek against Lina's shoulder. "You didn't run when I pushed. You stayed."

"I did," Lina said softly, running her fingers through Ayana's hair. "And I'll keep staying, even when it's hard. Especially then."

A silence fell between them, but it wasn't the kind that hurt. It breathed. It made space. Ayana closed her eyes and simply existed in that moment—her heartbeat aligning with Lina's, the warmth of skin on skin, the quiet hum of a world that had stopped rushing her.

Outside, the city pulsed in the background—distant horns, the occasional bark of a dog, life going on. But inside this apartment, time moved differently.

"I had a dream last night," Ayana said after a while.

Lina tilted her head slightly. "Tell me."

"We were old. Still together. I had wrinkles around my eyes, but you said they were from smiling too much. We were in a garden. There were sunflowers and soft music, and you were reading a book, but the words were mine."

Lina didn't speak. She just kissed Ayana's forehead gently, letting her fingers trace invisible lines along her back.

"I want to believe we'll make it there," Ayana said, eyes wide open now. "But I don't always trust forever. I've seen it break too easily."

"Then don't trust forever," Lina replied. "Trust this moment. And the next. And the next. That's how we build something that lasts."

Ayana exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. "Okay."

Lina reached behind her and pulled a notebook from under a stack of books. "You haven't written in a while."

Ayana frowned. "I've tried. The words... they don't come easy anymore."

"Then don't force them. Just write what's real."

She handed the notebook to Ayana, who hesitated before opening it. Her pen hovered above the page. Then, slowly, she wrote:

Today, love didn't ask me to bleed for it. It let me rest.

She looked up, eyes glistening. "That's all I have."

"That's enough," Lina said, and she meant it.

—

Later that evening, they prepared dinner together—simple food, but it felt sacred. Lina chopped vegetables while Ayana stirred the soup. Their movements were unhurried, synchronized like a dance they'd practiced in another life.

"Did you always know you were... like this?" Ayana asked, watching the way Lina held the knife, careful and precise.

"Like what?"

"Gentle. Safe."

Lina smiled. "I wasn't always. I had to unlearn a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"That I had to be loud to be heard. That love had to be earned. That silence was weakness."

Ayana let those words sink in.

"I was taught that silence meant someone stopped caring," Ayana said. "That the quieter it got, the closer they were to leaving."

Lina turned off the stove and faced her. "In this house, silence isn't absence. It's room to breathe."

Ayana blinked rapidly, tears threatening to spill. She reached for Lina, and they held each other for a long time—over soup and soft lights and all the things they hadn't said yet.

—

They ate on the floor, plates balanced on their laps, music playing from a crackling speaker. It was an old playlist Lina had made years ago—soft jazz and indie love songs and the occasional ballad in Spanish. Ayana leaned her head on Lina's shoulder.

"I think I'm still healing," she admitted.

"You don't have to finish healing to be loved," Lina replied.

Ayana turned to look at her. "But what if I fall apart again?"

"Then I'll hold the pieces with you."

The way she said it—quietly, confidently—made Ayana feel like the most precious thing in the world. Like maybe she wasn't a burden, but a story unfolding.

—

Night crept in gently. The city dimmed, and so did their voices.

They lay in bed, limbs entangled. Lina traced small circles on Ayana's wrist with her thumb.

"You used to flinch when I touched you," she said.

"I know. It wasn't because of you."

"I know that now. But back then, I was afraid I was asking for too much."

"You never did," Ayana said, kissing her knuckles. "You just waited. That was more than anyone ever did."

They stared at the ceiling in silence.

"Do you think you'll ever go back to your hometown?" Lina asked.

Ayana shook her head. "There's nothing there for me anymore."

"No one?"

"Just ghosts."

"You can talk about them if you want."

"Maybe someday. Not tonight."

"That's okay."

They turned toward each other.

"I used to be scared of the dark," Ayana confessed. "But I think I was more afraid of what I'd find inside myself when it was quiet."

"And now?"

"Now... I think I'm starting to like who I am in the dark."

Lina kissed her slowly, gently, like an answer. "You should. You're luminous."

—

It was past midnight when Ayana stirred from sleep. The moonlight painted silver lines across the room, and Lina's arms were wrapped around her waist. She didn't want to move.

But her thoughts were loud tonight.

She slipped out of bed, quietly, and tiptoed to the living room. The notebook still sat on the table. She flipped it open.

This time, the words didn't fight her.

There's a kind of love that doesn't rush you.

A kind that waits at the edge of your grief and asks no questions.

A kind that doesn't save you—but chooses to sit with you until you're ready to stand.

She paused, then added:

That's the kind of love I've found in her.

She set the pen down, exhaled, and leaned back into the couch. A few minutes later, Lina appeared in the doorway, sleepy and barefoot.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Ayana said. "I just had something I needed to say."

"Want company?"

Ayana smiled. "Always."

Lina walked over and sat beside her. She pulled Ayana into her arms, and they sat there—wordless, weightless—wrapped in the kind of silence that healed instead of hurt.

For the first time, Ayana didn't feel like she had to shrink herself to fit inside someone else's world. She could be whole. She could be broken. And Lina would still hold her hand.

Maybe that was the most radical kind of love—one that didn't demand a performance.

Just presence.

—

By dawn, they were still curled up on the couch, Ayana's head resting in Lina's lap. The city was beginning to stir again, but neither of them moved.

"I think I want to write again," Ayana whispered.

Lina smiled, eyes soft. "Then write. I'll be right here."

And that's how they began again. Not with fireworks, not with declarations—but with breath. With stillness. With the kind of love that grows even in the quiet.

Even in the dark.

Even when shadows bloom.