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100
Point of View: Bela

The next day, I hesitated before leaving the apartment. I stood by the door with my hand on the knob for a long while, listening to the city outside and wondering what exactly I was walking into. I wasn’t sure if I was meeting Lívia for comfort, distraction, or some fragile attempt at feeling like myself again. Maybe all of those. Maybe none.

We met at the same café, as if neither of us knew any other place in the city. She was already seated when I arrived, a small cup of espresso resting untouched in front of her. She looked up and smiled — not too wide, not too expectant. Just enough to say: I’m glad you came, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

I sat down slowly, still unsure if I should have come.

"You look tired," she said gently.

"I haven’t been sleeping much," I admitted. My voice came out lower than I expected, rough around the edges. "Thinking too much."

She nodded. "Thinking can be dangerous sometimes."

I smiled faintly. "Or maybe it just reminds us of everything we’re not ready to feel."

There was a silence between us, but it wasn’t the suffocating kind. It felt neutral, like a pause rather than a wall. I wrapped my hands around the warm cup the waiter placed in front of me and stared at the steam rising into the cold air.

"I almost didn’t come," I said, more to myself than to her.

"But you did," she replied, her tone soft. "That means something."

"Don’t read too much into it."

"I won’t," she said. And I believed her.

Another pause. I watched the people coming and going outside the glass window. I wondered how many of them were also walking around carrying pieces of someone they had lost.

"I still miss her," I said finally. "It doesn’t matter how many days pass. She’s... everywhere."

"You loved her," Lívia said. No judgment. No tone of jealousy or annoyance. Just a statement.

"I still do," I added quickly, instinctively, as if needing to defend something sacred.

She didn’t flinch. "I’m not here to ask you to stop."

"Then what are you here for?"

Lívia tilted her head slightly, thinking. "I think... just to hold space for you. If that’s something you want."

That word — space — felt like the first breath I’d taken all week. No pressure, no push toward something new. Just the possibility of being seen, without needing to be fixed.

"Everyone wants me to get over it," I said. "To move on, to heal, to be okay. But what if I’m not ready?"

"Then you’re not ready," she replied simply.

I looked at her, really looked at her. Her eyes didn’t waver. She wasn’t saying what she thought I wanted to hear. She was just saying the truth. And I didn’t realize how badly I needed that.

"I don’t know what I’m doing," I confessed. "This isn’t me trying to... start anything."

"I know."

"And I don’t want to give the wrong idea."

"You’re not."

"But I also don’t want to be alone anymore."

There. I said it. The hardest part.

Her voice was quieter when she answered. "Then don’t be."

It wasn’t a suggestion or an offer. It was a permission.

We stayed at the café longer than I expected. She didn’t ask about Clara again, and I didn’t bring her up. Instead, we talked about neutral things — books we hadn’t finished, places we wanted to visit but hadn’t, the strange comfort of rainy days. It felt... light. And I hadn’t felt light in so long.

When we left, we walked side by side. No touch, no closeness beyond proximity. But the silence between us had shifted. It no longer pressed against my chest. It let me breathe.

Outside, just as we were about to part ways, Lívia turned to me.

"You don’t owe me anything," she said. "Not a call, not another meeting, not a reason. Just take what you need."

I nodded slowly. "And if what I need is just... this?"

"Then this is enough."

We stood there, the streetlight humming above us, cars passing in the background like forgotten noise.

"Thank you," I said, because I didn’t know what else to offer.

She smiled again. That same quiet smile.

"For what?"

"For not asking me to be ready."

"I’m not here to rush your healing, Bela. I’m just here. That’s all."

And then she walked away.

I didn’t go home immediately. I walked for a while, hands in my coat pockets, eyes on the sidewalk. I wasn’t healed. I wasn’t over Clara. I wasn’t sure I ever would be. But for the first time in days, the ache in my chest felt a little less sharp.

And that was something.

Maybe I wasn’t moving on.

Maybe I was just... moving.

And for now, that was enough.