Days passed.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just like waves — coming, going, leaving behind traces.
Zahid didn't try to rush me. He kept his distance. But I noticed how, little by little, he was showing up more. Not as a mysterious man in black with blood on his hands, but as someone human — someone who cared, even if he didn't know how to show it right.
One afternoon, I was reading in the university library when I saw him walking through the glass doors.
Students turned to look at him — tall, calm, dressed in dark clothes, face half-covered by his mask.
There was something about him. Everyone noticed. But no one understood.
Except me.
He came and stood near my table. "May I?"
I nodded.
He sat across from me and placed something gently on the table.
A flower.
Not expensive. Not wrapped.
Just a single soft marigold.
I looked at it, then at him.
He didn't say a word. But his eyes said everything.
"I'm not used to this," I whispered.
"To flowers?" he asked, voice quiet.
"To… anyone choosing to be kind to me."
Zahid's eyes darkened slightly. "You deserve kindness, Rida."
"No," I replied honestly. "I don't think I've ever really believed that."
He leaned forward slowly. "Then I'll keep proving it to you."
I bit my lip, unsure what to say.
But before I could speak, someone called my name.
It was Sameer — a boy from class. Friendly. Loud. Curious.
He waved as he walked over. "Hey Rida! I didn't know you were close with Professor Zahid!"
I froze.
He smiled at both of us. "You know, there are rumors. That he's cold, strict, maybe dangerous—"
Zahid's posture didn't change. But his jaw tensed. His eyes darkened.
Sameer didn't notice.
I forced a smile. "They're just rumors."
Sameer laughed. "Right? Anyway, I was just saying hi. See you around."
He left.
Zahid sat quietly.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
"You don't need to be."
"But he—"
"I don't care what others say. But I do care if you believe them."
I looked at him honestly. "I don't."
He studied my face.
"I don't care what you've done, Zahid. Not because it's okay — it's not. But because you're not that person anymore. Not when you're with me."
His lips parted, but no words came out.It was the first time someone had told him that — maybe the first time he believed it, even just a little.
Later that evening, I found a note slipped into my book.
It was his handwriting.
"You don't need to understand all of me.
But thank you… for not running away from the parts you do understand.
– Z"