We didn't talk every day.
There were no constant messages.
No pressure to update each other every hour.
No streaks to maintain.
But when we did talk when we did meet it always felt real.
Safe.
Natural.
Light.
On Wednesday, he texted me in the afternoon.
Elijah:
Want to help me commit a harmless crime?
I blinked.
Ava:
What kind of crime are we talking about?
Elijah:
The kind where we sneak cupcakes into the art museum and sit on the back steps like rebels.
Ava:
Cupcake rebellion? Count me in.
That evening, I met him outside the museum, just after closing time.
He held a small brown paper bag in one hand, his sketchpad tucked under the other.
"Vanilla or red velvet?" he asked with a smirk.
"Red velvet," I replied without hesitation.
"Good choice. I almost didn't invite you if you were a vanilla person."
I laughed loudly.
And I realized in that moment:
I hadn't laughed like that in months.
We found a spot on the back steps, where vines climbed up the walls and city lights flickered in the distance.
He handed me a cupcake, and we ate in comfortable silence, the kind only certain people can create.
"You always this weird?" I teased.
"Absolutely," he replied. "Takes the edge off being this charming."
"Oh, is that what this is?" I grinned.
He mock-gasped.
"Wow. You doubt my charm? I feel betrayed."
"Mildly," I said, licking frosting off my thumb. "But I'll allow it."
We both laughed.
Really laughed.
Not forced.
Not polite.
Not careful.
Just joy.
After we finished our cupcakes, we leaned back, looking up at the sky.
It wasn't filled with stars not in the middle of the city but even the soft glow of passing planes looked beautiful from there.
"You know," I said quietly, "I forgot I could laugh like that."
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said
"You've been surviving for a long time, Ava. But now, you're starting to live."
That silence again.
Not heavy.
Just full.
"Do you ever feel like joy is dangerous?" I asked.
"Why?" he said, looking over at me.
"Because every time I've been happy, something came right after to ruin it."
"That's not joy's fault," he said gently. "That's just life being unfair. But joy still deserves space. You deserve space."
I looked at him, and he wasn't trying to convince me.
He was simply offering me a new way to think.
A new way to breathe.
We didn't touch.
We didn't flirt too hard.
But when we stood up to leave, he looked at me and said,
"If this ever feels too much, I'll never make you feel guilty for needing space."
And just like that, the wall I didn't know was still there… cracked.
That night, I didn't go home feeling scared.
I went home feeling light.
And in my journal, I wrote:
Today I laughed with someone who didn't expect anything in return.
Someone who didn't need my pain to be small or my healing to be neat.
Just someone who brought me a cupcake and made joy feel safe again.
It wasn't love yet.
But it felt like something just as rare
A safe place to land.