The morning sun filtered through the linen curtains of Ira's bedroom, painting golden streaks on the cluttered floor—half-read books, a misplaced cardigan, an empty glass of water. She stirred beneath her blanket, groaning as the soft light pierced her skull like needles.
Her head throbbed.
Her throat felt like sandpaper.
"Ugh... never again," she whispered, dragging herself upright with visible effort.
The room spun gently around her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her hair was a mess, her eyeliner smudged from the night before. She reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and took a long sip, trying to quiet the chaos inside her mind.
And then—like a wave that follows a brief calm—the memories came rushing back.
The bar. The awkward celebration. Her clumsy attempt to match Daniel drink for drink. The confession. The tears.
Her hand froze around the water bottle.
"I told him," she whispered, eyes widening. "I actually told him."
She buried her face in her hands.
What was I thinking?
She felt exposed. Raw. Like someone had peeled away all her carefully built walls and left her heart bare on the table. And worst of all—he had just gotten divorced. How could she do that to him? How could she bring her feelings into something so fragile?
Was she selfish? Desperate?
She didn't know.
And the worst part—he hadn't rejected her. Not then. He had listened, gently. Even reassured her.
Which only made her feel worse.
She curled up in her blanket, the pain in her head now joined by a heavier ache in her chest. She wasn't afraid that he hated her. She was afraid that she'd made something beautiful—something potentially meaningful—feel like just another complication in his life.
---
Meanwhile, Daniel's days took on a new rhythm.
The morning no longer began with Leah's alarm. No frantic breakfast. No cold silences. No pretending.
Just silence. Honest, heavy—but peaceful.
He started waking early, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He'd stretch by the window, go for a short run, and then brew himself a cup of coffee. In the quiet moments that followed, he'd read—something he hadn't done regularly in years.
He took online courses, dusted off his camera, dabbled in graphic design and web development. He even began tutoring part-time. Money started flowing in, steadily.
More than that, a sense of control returned.
He realized how much of himself he had sacrificed trying to fix a one-sided relationship. How many of his own dreams he'd shelved to support someone who never really saw them. He didn't blame Leah anymore. But he didn't pity himself either.
He was growing. Not out of spite. Not to prove anything.
Just because he deserved it.
---
And yet, through this rebuilding, one thread remained from the past—Ira.
He found himself at the library more often than necessary. Sometimes he brought work. Sometimes he didn't. It wasn't just about the books—it was her presence. Her quiet wit. Her thoughtful glances. Her understanding.
But something had changed.
Ira wasn't the same with him lately.
She smiled, yes. Chatted briefly. But there was distance—like she was standing behind glass. Present, but unreachable. She didn't laugh the same. Her sentences were shorter. Her eyes rarely met his.
At first, Daniel thought maybe he was imagining it. Maybe she was just busy. But the more it continued, the more certain he became—she was avoiding him.
And he didn't like it.
---
It was a quiet Thursday when he finally decided to ask.
He approached the front desk with a book he barely skimmed through, waited until no one else was around, and placed it on the counter.
"Ira," he said softly.
She looked up, startled. "Hey. Done already?"
"Not really," he said. "Just needed an excuse."
She hesitated. "What for?"
He studied her face. There was something in her eyes—guilt? Worry?
"You've been… different."
She gave a faint laugh. "Different how?"
"Distant. Careful. Like you're walking on eggshells."
She was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers lightly tapped the desk, then stilled.
"I guess I am," she said finally, her voice softer than before.
Daniel leaned a little closer. "Why?"
Ira looked down, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Because I'm embarrassed. About that night."
He didn't say anything. Let her speak.
"I drank too much. I said too much. You'd just gotten out of something painful and I showed up with my feelings like a wrecking ball. It wasn't fair to you."
Daniel shook his head slowly. "It wasn't a wrecking ball, Ira. It was honest."
She looked up at him, eyes brimming with conflict.
"I just… I don't want to be another thing you need to recover from."
His heart tightened at that. He reached out gently, placing his hand on the counter, not quite touching hers.
"You're not," he said firmly. "You're one of the few things lately that feels... good. Real."
She blinked, a little stunned.
Daniel smiled slightly. "I've been thinking too. About life. About the kind of people I want around me. And you—you've always been someone I trusted. Even back then, even now."
She looked down again, this time smiling faintly. "Still not promising I won't act awkward though."
"I'd be worried if you didn't," he teased.
And just like that, the tension softened.
Maybe things weren't clear yet. Maybe both still had their own growing to do. But for the first time in a long while—between them—there was a beginning again.