Aleah's POV
I muttered another soft apology before turning away. My steps felt both too light and too heavy, like I was floating just above the ground and yet sinking into it. My chest fluttered with something electric—a strange, restless mix of giddiness and ache that made my throat tighten.
Something about falling into Yasmin's arms had sparked a warmth I hadn't expected, one I couldn't shake. I wanted that closeness again—that fleeting shelter of being held. But beneath it all was a sting, sharp and familiar. I wasn't meant to stay in her orbit.
When I reached class, everything blurred back into the usual rhythm. Chairs screeched. Teachers droned. Pens scratched paper. People talked around me, never to me. The day moved on as if nothing had shifted—but something had.
I didn't speak to Yasmin for the rest of the week. Not a word. Not even a glance, though my eyes searched for her like a reflex. Her girlfriend wore that territorial glare—the kind that made every breath feel like trespassing.
So I stayed silent.
One evening, alone in my bedroom with the door shut and the world outside muted, I picked up a pen.
And I wrote.
It wasn't just a letter—it was a quiet confession. A secret pressed onto the page with trembling hands and a pounding heart. I wrote about the way Yasmin made the air feel different, how her laughter became a song I couldn't forget. About the warmth of her arms and how my heart had stumbled in their brief shelter.
It was a letter full of love and feeling—not desperate, not begging—just real.
For the first time in days, I let myself feel everything I had been trying so hard to bury—but I wasn't sure what would come next.