The city below buzzed with distant sounds—the hum of late-night traffic, the occasional siren—but up here, the rooftop held a quiet sanctuary. Liora and Mara sat side by side on the worn bench, the cool night air wrapping around them like a gentle cloak.
The worn flower guide rested forgotten between them, their fingers occasionally brushing as they shared the small space.
Liora's heart beat faster each time their skin met—a secret language written in touches and glances, more vivid than any words.
Mara's eyes held something new tonight—a vulnerability that spoke louder than any confession.
"I want to tell you something," Mara said, her voice soft, hesitant.
Liora turned toward her, attentive and steady.
"It's about why I sent the note. Why I chose you."
She paused, searching for the right words.
"I've spent years hiding parts of myself, wearing masks to protect against pain. But when I saw you—your quiet strength, the way you listen—I felt something shift. Like maybe, for the first time, I could be seen."
Liora's throat tightened. She understood all too well the weight of masks and the fear of exposure.
"I'm not perfect," Mara continued, "and I don't know where this will lead. But I want to try. To be honest—with you, and with myself."
A fragile hope blossomed between them, tender and tentative.
Liora reached out, her fingers intertwining with Mara's. "I want that too," she whispered.
For a long moment, they simply held each other's hands, the quiet confession binding them closer.
Under the vast night sky, two souls began to trust, to hope, to lean into the promise of something real.
Some flowers mean love. Others mean goodbye.
Tonight, theirs spoke of beginnings.