David remained seated long after Amira left the café. The cup of coffee in front of him had gone cold, untouched, forgotten.
But something inside him was warming.
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't say no either.
And in a life where silence had once ended everything, those few words — "Let's start there" — were a seed of something new.
Sunday Morning
Amira stood by her bedroom window the next morning, coffee in hand. She hadn't slept much.
Memories had a way of turning her bed into a battlefield.
She kept hearing his voice: "Would you let me try again?"
And her reply: "Let's start there."
Had she meant it?
She didn't know.
But for once, she didn't feel like running from the past. She was staring at it straight in the eye.
And somehow, that made her feel… powerful.
At 9:13 AM, her phone buzzed.
David Bennett: Thank you for yesterday. No pressure. No rushing. Just one message a day — just to say something real. If that's okay with you.
Amira read the message twice.
She didn't reply immediately.
She placed the phone down and walked away.
But she didn't delete it.
That, in itself, was something.
One Message a Day
Day 1: "Do you remember our first rain walk? You hated getting wet, but we danced anyway. I never forgot your laugh that day."
Day 2: "I've started journaling. You once said writing your pain is the first step to healing. You were right."
Day 3: "I walked past the bookstore you love. They've rearranged the shelves. Romance is now next to poetry. Fitting, I thought."
Each message came with no expectations. Just honesty.
And Amira — though she didn't reply — read every single one.
More than once.
One week later, Amira opened her door to find a small brown box on her doormat. No name. Just her address in neat handwriting.
Inside?
A book: "The Things We Leave Behind."
And a note:
"You once told me books understand what people can't say. Maybe this one can speak where I still stumble." — D.
She sat down, book in hand, heart thudding.
She hadn't planned to let him back in.
But healing isn't always planned.
Sometimes it sneaks in gently — like sunlight through old curtains.
Meanwhile, David was rebuilding his own life.
Therapy. Journaling. Workouts he once skipped.
He wasn't doing it to win her back.
He was doing it to become the man he wished he'd been before she left.
But every effort, every honest word, carried her name in the silence.
He wasn't chasing her anymore.
He was chasing growth.
On Sunday, exactly two weeks after the café meeting, Amira replied for the first time.
Amira: I finished the book. It hurt. It helped. Thank you.
Five simple words.
But they were everything.