Chapter 29— Fragile Steps
Lyra's POV
The hallways feel quieter than usual today. Maybe it's just me noticing, or maybe the school has shifted with my presence.
After the music room confrontation, everything seems sharper, heavier — but also… lighter. I can't explain it. I just know that the tension that's been coiled in my chest these past weeks has loosened slightly.
I walk to my locker, sketchbook tucked under my arm, and notice Evan leaning against the far wall. His eyes meet mine for a brief second before he looks away. It's different now — he's not pressing, not desperate, just… there. Waiting, patiently. And somehow that makes my chest ache in a new, softer way.
I open my locker, fumbling with the combination, pretending not to notice him inching a little closer. He clears his throat softly. "Morning," he says, careful, not smiling too brightly. Just enough warmth to make the knot in my stomach twist pleasantly.
"Morning," I mumble, keeping my eyes on my books.
He lingers, quiet. "I know it's going to take time," he says finally. "And I'll wait. I just… wanted you to know I'll be here, wherever you need me."
I nod stiffly, gripping my sketchbook tighter. "I know."
He doesn't say anything else, just slides a small folded note into my locker before stepping away. My fingers brush against it as I close the door. My curiosity wins over hesitation.
Inside, neat handwriting reads:
"I remembered the first day we sat under the stars at Soraya's sleepover. I thought you were asleep, but you weren't. I just… I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Sol."
My fingers tighten around the paper. My heart flutters, reluctant, wary, but not entirely cold. I tuck the note into my pocket and walk to class, feeling… something.
By lunch, I'm still processing. The cafeteria smells like fried food and warm bread, but my stomach isn't in knots. I find a quiet corner, open my sketchbook, and begin drawing again. Lines, shapes, little stars, triangles, curves — nothing perfect, just… a small reflection of my scattered thoughts.
Then, a familiar voice. "Mind if I sit?" Evan stands beside me, careful, holding a tray of food. I glance up. He's smiling faintly, tentative, and my chest tightens in that strange, confusing way.
"You can sit," I murmur, keeping my sketchbook between us like a barrier.
He slides in across from me, setting the tray down gently. For a few minutes, we eat quietly, the air between us charged but not oppressive. Small moments stretch, comfortable and tense all at once.
"I didn't want to push," he says finally, eyes down. "Just… checking in."
I glance at him. "I appreciate it."
His lips twitch into the smallest smile. "Good. Because I'm going to keep doing it. Slowly. If you'll let me."
I don't respond immediately. I'm wary, of course. But there's something in the way he sits — calm, patient, careful not to overwhelm me — that softens something in my chest. A memory of better days creeps in. Laughing under the stars. Quiet talks in the music room. The nickname he gave me. That little light I used to feel around him.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes, notes, and careful glances. He doesn't crowd me, doesn't force conversation, but small gestures slip in. A water bottle placed beside me when I forget mine. A quiet "I saved you a seat" at the library. A small smile when our eyes meet briefly in the hallway.
Each gesture feels deliberate, tender, almost courting without words. It's… gentle. Slow. And though part of me is wary, another part, the part I've tried to lock away, softens just a little.
By the time the final bell rings, I realize that the tight coil of anger that's been sitting in my chest for weeks has loosened. Not gone, not forgotten, but softened. I'm still cautious. I'm still guarded. But the small, patient gestures — the notes, the smiles, the space he gives me — begin to bridge the distance between hurt and hope.
And I let myself imagine… maybe, just maybe, the next time I see him, I'll let him a little closer. Not fully. Not yet. But enough to breathe again. Enough to see that perhaps this, fragile as it is, could be something worth trying to mend.