A Belief

A Belief
The sunlight creeps into the room before I open my eyes. It lands right across her face.

Anastasia sleeps with her arms tucked under the pillow, lips parted slightly. Her hair is a mess, and I think she’s never looked more peaceful than this.

It still feels unreal sometimes. That we made it out. That we have mornings like this now—soft, quiet, and without fear.

I get up slowly, trying not to wake her. She stirs anyway, blinking up at me.

“Where are you going?” she mumbles.

“Just making coffee,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

She hums and closes her eyes again, and I watch her a little longer than I should.

I take my mug outside. The sky’s still pink. A few birds call out from the trees beyond the garden. The wind carries the scent of dew and wildflowers.

This life, it’s simple. But it’s something I never thought I’d have.

I think about the things I’ve done, the people I hurt, the blood on my hands, the things I can’t erase. And sometimes, I wonder what I did to deserve her. To deserve mornings like this.

She forgave me, even when I couldn’t forgive myself.

That kind of love, it’s dangerous. Because it makes me want to believe I can be better.

And that’s terrifying. Because my happiness shouldn't entirely rely on just one person.

We spend most of the day doing chores. She folds laundry while humming. I fix a broken leg on the kitchen chair. Maria comes over in the afternoon with fresh groceries and complains about how boring her college assignments are. Grandma gives me a list of errands and scolds me when I forget the milk again.

But it’s all ordinary. Safe. The kind of normal I used to envy from behind steel bars.

After dinner, Anastasia surprises me.

“I bought us something,” she says, pulling a small box from the drawer.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is this another couple hobby?”

She grins. “Maybe.”

She opens the box to reveal a chessboard.

I laugh. “You don’t even know how to play.”

“Then teach me.”

I sit down across from her, setting up the board. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I crush you.”

“You wish.”

We play until midnight. She’s terrible at first. Then she gets a little better. Then she cheats once when I’m not looking.

I let her win anyway.

Later that night, I lie beside her in bed, the chessboard still sitting on the table between our coffee mugs.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says suddenly.

“About?”

“About us. This place. Everything.”

I turn to face her. “What about it?”

She sighs. “I’m scared sometimes. Like it’s all going to disappear.”

I reach for her hand. “It’s not.”

“But what if it does?”

I pause. Then I say, “If it does, we’ll run again. We’ll fight again. We’ve done it before.”

She nods. But I know that’s not what she’s really afraid of. She’s afraid of me. Of what I might become if the past comes knocking again.

And truth is, I’m afraid of that too.

~

The next day, we decide to take a walk by the river. It’s quiet there, just the sound of water and the occasional breeze that stirs the leaves. Anastasia skips stones while I sit on the bench and watch her.

“You know,” she says, crouching by the edge, “you used to scare me a little.”

I blink. “What?”

“Back when we first met again. After prison. You were so cold. I didn’t know how to read you.”

I lean back, the sun warming my skin. “I was scared too. I thought if I got too close, I’d ruin you.”

She glances over her shoulder. “And now?”

“Now I know I can’t live without you.”

She smiles, walking over to sit beside me. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said all week.”

“Well, I’m not great with words.”

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “You don’t have to be.”

That night, as we lie in bed again, I trace the curve of her shoulder with my fingers.

“We’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I don’t know what’s coming next, but I know this, whatever happens, I’ll protect this. I’ll protect you.”

She presses her forehead to my chest. “Even from yourself?”

“Especially from myself.”

She closes her eyes. “Then I believe you.”

The next morning, I wake up before her again.

She’s curled into my chest, breathing softly. And for a long moment, I just stay still, holding her. There’s no rush. No alarms. No pounding on the door. It’s quiet. And I think maybe that’s the rarest sound in my life.

But peace is unfamiliar. And unfamiliar things make me nervous.

I slip out of bed and make us breakfast, eggs, toast, tea. She joins me a little while later, yawning and wearing one of my shirts, her hair wild and her smile lazy.

“You’re up early,” she says.

I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t ask why. She just steps forward and presses a kiss to my shoulder. And somehow that says more than any question could.

After breakfast, we take a walk into town. The streets are quiet, filled with the kind of calm only small places know. We stop at a second-hand bookstore. She lights up at the sight of it. I follow her inside, even though I don’t care much for reading.

But watching her flip through the old pages, smiling to herself, tugging my hand every now and then to show me something she loves—it makes me feel like I could live a thousand lifetimes just doing this.

“Can we get this one?” she asks, holding up a worn poetry book.

“Only if you read it to me,” I say.

She grins. “Deal.”

Later, we sit on a bench outside the store, watching the sky turn gold as the sun starts to dip.

“Do you ever think,” she says, quietly, “that maybe this is our second chance?”

I nod. “I do.”

She turns to me. “Then let’s not waste it.”

I look at her, really look at her, and I know what she means. We’ve spent so long surviving. Running. Fighting ghosts and memories.

But maybe now it’s time we start living.

“We won’t,” I promise. “No matter what happens, we won’t.”

She reaches for my hand, and I hold it like it’s the most sacred thing in the world.

Because to me, it is.

And in that moment, I stop fearing the past.

I only look ahead.