Chapter 17: Unspoken Words

It's funny, how love works. When you're a kid, you think love is supposed to be all grand gestures—fireworks, big speeches, the kind of shit that makes people go "aww." But as you get older, you start to realize that love isn't like that. Not real love. It's not about sweeping someone off their feet; it's about showing up every day, even when you don't have all the answers. It's about the little moments—the quiet ones, the ones where you don't need words to say how much you care. Those are the moments that matter. Those are the ones that make all the difference.

Amir and I were learning that together. Slowly, but surely.

We weren't perfect, no. Hell, far from it. I still saw the walls he put up, the way he hesitated before letting me in, like he was testing the waters. But the thing was, I could feel him letting me get closer each time. I could feel him trying, even if it was hard for him. And that meant everything.

It had been a couple of weeks since we had that conversation near the park. Since he admitted how scared he was, how much he hated feeling vulnerable. And I knew he wasn't just scared of me leaving; he was scared of the world, of life itself. He'd lost so much. People he loved had come and gone, and I think he'd convinced himself that if he let anyone get too close, they'd leave too. But he was starting to see that it didn't have to be that way with me.

We'd spent most of our time together lately, talking, hanging out, being close in ways that didn't require words. I think we both needed that—space to just exist without pressure. It was like our connection was deepening in this quiet, steady way, and for the first time, I felt like I didn't need to rush. I didn't need to force anything.

It was late again, another one of those nights when everything seemed to slow down, and Amir and I were sitting on the roof of his apartment building, the cool night air wrapping around us. The city below was alive, but up here, it felt like we were in our own little world. There was something peaceful about it—being up high, out of reach from everything else. Just us.

Amir was leaning against the railing, eyes closed, the moonlight catching his face just right. There was something almost fragile about the way he looked, like he was both here with me but also somewhere far away, thinking about something that weighed on him.

I wanted to ask him what was on his mind, but I wasn't sure if he was ready to talk about it yet. He had this way of retreating into his own thoughts when things got heavy, like he was trying to process everything on his own. But I could tell that, tonight, he was closer to opening up.

I didn't want to rush him, though. Not now.

"You ever think about how much things change?" Amir's voice cut through the quiet, pulling me from my own thoughts. I turned my head toward him, surprised by the question.

"All the time," I replied, leaning back against the roof, staring up at the sky. The stars were barely visible, lost in the glow of the city, but I liked the idea of looking up at them anyway. It made me feel small, but in a good way. "Life changes, people change, and sometimes it feels like you're the only one who doesn't."

He chuckled softly, but there was an edge to his laughter, like the words were heavier than he was letting on. He shifted slightly, his eyes opening but still focused on something distant. "Yeah, that's exactly it. I feel like I'm stuck sometimes. Like I'm just standing still while everything else moves forward."

I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him that it didn't have to be that way. But I knew he wouldn't want me to tell him what to feel. So I stayed silent, letting him say whatever was on his mind.

"I don't know how to make sense of it all," he continued, voice quieter now. "How to let go of the past. How to stop holding onto all the people who've hurt me. I don't even know how to... move on, I guess."

I could feel the weight of his words, even though he hadn't said everything he was thinking. Amir had been carrying so much for so long. It was like he didn't know how to leave behind the people who'd left him behind, the people who'd shattered his trust. It was easier for him to keep them in his head, keep their memory alive, than to face the fear of letting someone new in. Of trusting again.

I moved closer to him, close enough that our shoulders brushed, and I let the silence settle between us for a while. I didn't need to say anything right away. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

Finally, after what felt like forever, I spoke. "It's okay to not have it all figured out, Amir. I don't have it all figured out either. I just... I just know that I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting mine. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but there was something else too. Something that looked a little like trust. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but it was enough for me to see that he was starting to believe me.

"I know you're here," he said quietly. "But what if I mess it up? What if I push you away like everyone else?"

"You won't mess it up," I said, my voice firm but gentle. "I'm not like them. I'm not going anywhere, Amir. I'm not leaving you."

He didn't respond right away, but I saw the way his chest rose and fell, like he was trying to breathe through the anxiety, through the fear of being abandoned. I knew it wasn't going to be easy for him to believe, not overnight. But I also knew that as long as he let me, I was going to keep showing up. One day at a time.

"I'm scared," he said after a pause, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared of letting you in too much. I'm scared that one day, you're just going to leave."

I let his words hang in the air between us, and then I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm not going anywhere, Amir. You don't have to do this alone. You've got me."

For a moment, neither of us said anything else. We just sat there, the sounds of the city far below us and the quiet of the night wrapping around us like a blanket.

And then, in that silence, something shifted.

Amir turned to face me, his hand still in mine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw him let go of some of that tension. Some of that fear. He wasn't smiling, but there was something softer in his eyes now. Something that told me he was starting to believe. Not in me, necessarily, but in us.

"I want to believe you," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I want to believe that this isn't just another one of those things that falls apart."

I smiled, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you."

And in that moment, I could feel it. That shift, that crack in his armor, just wide enough for me to slip through. He wasn't there yet, but he was getting there. He was starting to trust me. Starting to trust himself.

And that, right there, was enough.