Daniel arrived early.
He stood outside the café they had agreed on—neutral ground, neither home nor memory—and watched people come and go while his chest tightened with something close to fear.
He wasn't afraid of losing Amara anymore.
He was afraid of hearing himself clearly.
When she arrived, he stood instinctively, then stopped himself. He didn't want to perform. He wanted to be present.
Amara looked steadier than he remembered. Quieter, yes—but rooted.
They sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Amara inhaled.
"I need you to listen," she said. "Not to respond. Not to explain. Just to hear me."
Daniel nodded. "I can do that."
She studied him for a second, then began.
She spoke about loneliness. About silence that erased instead of soothed. About the exhaustion of being the only one adjusting. She spoke without apology, without softening.
Daniel felt each word land heavily, unmistakably.
When she finished, the air between them felt fragile—but honest.
He swallowed. "I didn't know."
"I know," Amara said gently. "That's the problem."
Daniel nodded slowly, resisting the urge to defend himself.
"I'm not asking you to promise change," she continued. "I'm asking you to understand what I won't carry anymore."
Daniel met her gaze. "I don't want you to carry it."
It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't a vow.
It was a beginning.
And for the first time, neither of them rushed to fill the silence that followed.
Because this silence—finally—was shared.