"The Weight She Carries"
Lex had always been good at reading people. At pretending not to care while quietly studying every room, every flicker of expression, every silence stretched too long.
But Muri? She was like smoke—impossible to hold, beautiful in motion, and always on the edge of vanishing.
He saw it that afternoon, in the way she said okay without meeting his eyes. Something wasn't right. Not between them, but within her.
Lex knew better than to push.
But that didn't mean he didn't worry.
That night, he lay in bed with his phone screen glowing in the dark. Her messages had stopped coming in like they used to. No voice notes. No blurry photos of her cat. No "just thinking of you" texts that she'd pretend were jokes.
He typed:
You okay?
Paused. Deleted it. Typed again:
Still up?
No response.
He tossed the phone on his chest and stared at the ceiling. His mind wandered, uninvited, to her reputation—whispers he'd ignored, warnings he hadn't wanted. But none of that matched the girl he'd sat with under the tree. The one who touched his hand like it meant something. The one who trusted him with a silence heavier than words.
The one he might be falling for.
Damn it.
The next morning, he found himself at the café near campus, her favorite. He didn't text her. Just sat with two drinks and a sinking feeling that she might not show.
And then she did.
Hair tied up. Oversized sweater. Eyes tired, like she hadn't slept.
She sat across from him, looked at the untouched drink, then at him.
"You remembered my order."
"Of course I did."
She took a sip. Then another. Then finally said, "Sometimes I get scared I'm going to mess this up."
He swallowed the tightness in his throat. "You don't have to be perfect. I just want you. The real you."
She looked away.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
And that was enough.
For now.
But Lex knew this wasn't over.
Because love wasn't just about what you felt.
It was about what you fought for.