The room felt smaller than it was.
Maybe it was the bandages. Maybe the exhaustion. Maybe the way she sat beside me — close but tense, as if the slightest wrong word would send her running.
Or maybe it was because I knew I couldn't hide anymore.
She'd been caring for me quietly for days — bringing food, adjusting pillows, reading in the chair beside my bed until her eyes fluttered shut.
Every time I drifted awake, she was there.
Every time she thought I was asleep, she traced her thumb along the back of my hand — so gently it almost broke me.
And today, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she arranged the flowers she brought… I knew.
No more distance.
No more silence.
No more pretending she hadn't changed everything.
"Amara," I said softly.
She turned, smiling as if she wasn't exhausted. "Yeah?"
My chest tightened.
She deserved the truth.
"I owe you an explanation."
Her brows drew together. "For what?"
Everything.
"Come here," I murmured.
She moved to my bedside, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket, waiting — patient as always. Careful. Like she was afraid touching me wrong might hurt me.
I took her hand.
And I finally said the words I should've said months ago.
"That day at the subway wasn't a coincidence."
Her breath caught.
I continued, voice low, steady.
"The first day I saw you… you were sitting in the subway station, scribbling in that battered notebook as if the world could fall apart around you and you'd still write."
I swallowed — the memory bright, almost painful.
"You had your earphones taped together. Your phone looked like it had survived a war. And you were writing like someone who had stories clawing their way out of her."
She stared at me — confused, stunned, silent.
"I kept going back," I confessed. "Every day. Same time. Same train. Just to sit across from you."
A soft gasp left her lips.
"I learned your habits long before I learned your name. You always wrote your ideas in the corner of the page — tiny notes that spiraled into each other like vines. You never crossed out an idea. You just… redirected it, nurtured it. I'd never seen someone treat their own imagination so gently."
Her eyes were already glossy, her mouth parted in disbelief.
I looked down, almost ashamed to admit the next part.
"And sometimes the seat beside you magically opened up"
I exhaled. "Well not really. I… paid people to move."
Her hand tightened in mine.
"I just wanted to be close enough to see what you were writing."
I saw the question forming in her eyes — Why?
I answered before she spoke.
"You felt real to me," I said quietly. "Before I ever knew your voice. Before I knew your smile. You felt like—"
I hesitated, breath trembling.
"Like something I wasn't allowed to want."
Her lips trembled.
"And the store," she whispered. "in the subway…"
I nodded.
"Truck actually" I paused looking at her fingers not sure whether to look her in the eyes.
"I convinced my uncle to buy the location. Told him it would be profitable. Told him it was good foot traffic."
I met her gaze.
"But the truth is… I just wanted an excuse to stay in that world of yours. The one where everything was messy and sincere and honest."
She stared at me a small smile now tugging gently at the side of her lips
"And that day," I continued, "when I finally approached you? I'd been sitting there for thirty minutes trying to get the courage to speak. My palms were sweating. My heart wouldn't stop pounding. I must've rehearsed a dozen opening lines and forgot every single one."
She let out a breathy laugh — soft, disbelieving.
"But then I looked at you and… I couldn't walk away again."
I lifted her chin gently with my fingers.
"And I haven't wanted to walk away since."
Her tears fell then — quiet and unstoppable — sliding down her cheeks as she shook her head in stunned wonder.
"Adrian," she whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because every time I tried," I said, "I remembered the girl on the subway. The one who flinched when the world demanded too much of her. I didn't want to overwhelm you. I didn't want you to feel like you owed me something just because I… cared more than I should have."
She stepped closer — so close I felt the warmth of her breath.
"And now?" she whispered.
"Now," I said, voice low, steady, certain,
"I want you to know everything. No secrets. No barriers. No disappearing when things get difficult."
I cupped her face gently.
"I'm in love with you, Amara."
Her breath hitched — like the words knocked the air out of her.
"I have been since the moment I saw you scribbling lines in a notebook like you were writing to save your own life."
She didn't speak.
She didn't have to.
She leaned in slowly — hesitant, afraid this was some fragile dream — and pressed her forehead to mine.
"I love you too," she whispered, voice shaking but sure. "I don't know when it happened… but I do."
Everything in me went soft — unraveled — relieved.
"Then be mine," I breathed. "No more distance. No more walls."
Her answer was a small, trembling laugh — the happiest sound I'd ever heard.
"Yes," she whispered. "I already am."
I pulled her into me — careful, gentle — and felt her arms wrap around me as though she'd been waiting her whole life to land there.
For the first time in months, my heart steadied.
And for the first time in forever, I wasn't afraid of wanting something.
Of wanting her.