Monday came with a gray sky and the usual haze of morning emails.
It had been five days since I told him — softly, hesitantly, not expecting anything — "I think I like you, but I'm not sure." I hadn't thought much about it since. Not out of regret, and not with hope. I just… let it go. I told the truth because I wanted to, not because I wanted something back.
I didn't even bring it up again. I pretended it didn't happen.
And Elián? He was the same — until he wasn't.
He passed by my desk more often that morning, offering small comments that didn't mean much unless you looked closely.
"That client file — I noticed you edited the draft yourself. Nice touch."
Or:
"You didn't bring coffee today. Want me to grab you one later?"
His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered longer. His voice was gentler. Like he was… noticing more.
By lunch, I was already unsettled.
We hadn't talked about that night. The one where we left the office together. The one where he asked if I wanted to grab a bite, and I said yes, not knowing what I'd end up saying over pasta and too much iced tea.
"I think I like you, but I'm not sure."
His face had been unreadable. Calm, blank, that signature Pisces nonchalance that made me second guess whether he felt anything at all.
He only said, "I don't know what to say."
And then changed the topic.
But now… now he was lingering.
At around 3 p.m., he messaged me.
Elián:
Are you free after work?
I stared at the message for a second too long.
Me:
Depends. Why?
Elián:
Let's go out.
No explanation. No smiley face. Just those three words. And even if I had told myself I was done feeling anything, my pulse betrayed me.
We met outside the office building just after 6:30. He was wearing a dark jacket over a plain shirt and jeans. Simple. Easy. His cologne was faint tonight like he didn't want to be too much.
We walked in silence for a bit until we reached a small café nearby. Nothing fancy. But quiet enough.
He ordered black coffee. I got something iced and sweet.
It was quiet for the first ten minutes. I didn't push. He sipped. I stared at the spoon in my drink like it might tell me what he was thinking.
Then finally, he spoke.
"That night," he said. "When you said what you said… were you serious?"
I looked up slowly. "Why would I say it if I wasn't?"
He nodded; eyes fixed on his cup. "I just… didn't expect it."
"I wasn't expecting anything either," I said, my voice steady. "I wasn't trying to get something from you. I just wanted to tell the truth."
He glanced at me then — eyes soft, unreadable, and something else I couldn't quite name.
"I'm not good with feelings," he said after a pause. "Sometimes I don't even know what I feel until it's too late."
There it was again. That Pisces vagueness. That foggy space between warmth and distance.
I could've asked what he meant. I could've pushed. But I didn't.
Instead, I just smiled a little and said, "That sounds like your problem, not mine."
He laughed — a quiet, surprised sound.
"You're something else," he said, shaking his head.
"Is that a compliment?"
"Maybe."
We finished our drinks without rushing.
When he walked me home, we didn't touch. Didn't hug. I didn't say much more.
But when we got to my street, he looked at me and said, "You don't make it easy to stay distant, Mara."
Then he turned and left.
And I stood there, heart twisted in a way I didn't expect — not because I was falling again, but because I was finally being seen, and I didn't know if it was too late or too early.
Later that night, I got his message:
Elián:
Are you home safe?
Me:
Yup. You?
Elián:
Yeah. Thanks for coming out.
Me:
Anytime.
Elián:
Even if I don't know how to say things right?
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Me:
Even then.
He sent a thumbs-up. Nothing else.
But somehow, that meant more than anything. It felt more like something
I turned off my phone and I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it might finally give me something back. An answer. A sign. Anything.
I wasn't in love. Not yet. But something in me had cracked open again.
No matter how I tried to reason with it, something inside me kept whispering: There's more to this.
That's when I remembered Lucia.
Isla's cousin had mentioned her once over dinner in that offhand way people talk about things they don't fully understand.
"She's not exactly a therapist," Isla had said. "More like… someone who sees what's beneath the surface." like a fortune teller or something else like a guide.
I didn't think. I just messaged her.
Two days later, I found myself in a quiet room tucked behind a café that smelled like cardamom and old stories.
The air was warm with incense. Plants lined the windows. Sunlight filtered through woven blinds like it had been waiting for me.
Lucia was barefoot. Her presence felt ancient and soft at the same time.
Her voice was low, steady like water smoothing out stone.
"Tell me about the dream," she said.
Not curious.
Familiar.
Like she'd heard this before.
So I told her. Everything.
When I finished, she didn't speak right away.
She poured the tea slowly and deliberately as if the silence were part of the ritual.
Then, gently:
"Sometimes, when two souls have shared lifetimes, the body remembers before the mind does. That ache you feel — it's not new. It's remembered."
I felt my breath catch.
Like something inside me had been named.
"Why him?" I asked. "Why now?"
Lucia smiled, soft and knowing.
"Because the soul doesn't forget. And sometimes, it calls out… hoping the other still listens."
That night, after I got home,
I didn't light a candle.
I didn't write in my journal.
Didn't try to make sense of anything.
I just lay there — on top of the covers, shoes still on — and let the quiet wrap around me.
When I finally closed my eyes,
I dreamed nothing.
No faces.
No echoes.
No him.
Just a quiet sky.
A soft breeze.
As if, for one night, the universe decided to let me rest.
No signs. No symbols.
Just stillness.
And maybe that was the message.
Not everything has to arrive with thunder.
Not every answer needs to be loud.
Sometimes, healing sounds like silence.
Sometimes, peace is just the absence of ache.
And for the first time in a long time,
I didn't wake up reaching for something that wasn't there.
I just… woke up.
And that felt like a beginning