Chapter 61 up
“We can sit here, or if you’d rather take a short walk, I’ll come with you.”
Vincent’s voice was soft—neither pressing nor commanding. He stood half a step beside Nyla, not too close, not distant either. His hand did not reach out, his eyes did not insist on meeting hers. He was simply there—like an empty chair offered politely.
Nyla looked at the small courtyard in front of the therapy center. The grass was neatly trimmed, wooden benches lined up facing a shallow pond that reflected the late afternoon light. The air felt warm, not oppressive, not stirring dark memories. She gave a small nod.
“Let’s just sit,” she said.
They took two steps forward and sat side by side. The space between them was enough to breathe. Vincent placed the pale yellow flowers on the bench beside them—not on Nyla’s lap—as if leaving the choice open: to take them or not, entirely up to her.
Several seconds passed without words.
Nyla noticed something strange—her chest was not tight. There was no urge to explain her feelings, no obligation to appear okay. The silence did not demand anything.
“If you want me to leave, say so,” Vincent said at last. “I won’t be offended.”
Nyla turned to him. There was sincerity there, not performative empathy. “I don’t want you to leave,” she said honestly. “I just… don’t want to be asked too many questions.”
Vincent nodded. “Alright.”
One word. No follow-up questions. No disappointed expression.
Nyla took a long breath. The air reached the bottom of her lungs without catching. She looked at the small pond, watching ripples form as the wind passed over the surface.
“Today’s therapy was heavy,” she said quietly, as if speaking to the water.
“I can wait until you want to talk,” Vincent replied. “Or I can stay quiet.”
Nyla smiled faintly. “Just stay quiet.”
They sank back into silence. Vincent leaned back, gazing ahead, as if placing himself in the background rather than at the center. Nyla felt his presence like a low fence—not confining, just enough to keep her from falling.
The memory came uninvited.
Clark, with his regret-filled face, always wanted to talk. Always wanted to explain. Always wanted to make up for things. Every sentence was an attempt to fix what had broken—not by listening, but by proving himself worthy of forgiveness.
I’m sorry.
I’ll change.
I’ll make it right.
Those words had once sounded like hope. Now Nyla understood—they were also a burden. Because behind them lay a quiet demand: watch me struggle, then come back.
“Vincent,” Nyla said suddenly.
He turned, not startled. “Yes?”
“Have you ever felt like you had to fix someone?”
Vincent thought for a moment. “I used to. But I learned—wanting to fix someone is often more about our own guilt than their needs.”
Nyla swallowed. The sentence landed exactly where it hurt, yet it didn’t wound.
“So you stopped?” she asked.
“I learned to stop,” Vincent said. “I learned to ask: do I want to help, or do I want to feel right.”
Nyla nodded slowly. Something loosened in her shoulders.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “Not of people. Of dependence.”
Vincent looked at the pond. “Dependence blurs boundaries.”
“I don’t want to live under anyone’s shadow again,” Nyla continued. “Not even a shadow called love.”
“That’s a valid choice,” Vincent said. “Love should give light, not cast shadows.”
Nyla smiled softly. “You don’t sound like someone trying to win a heart.”
Vincent smiled back—brief, genuine. “Because I’m not trying.”
That honesty was soothing. No games. No strategy. Just clear footing.
They stood as the sun began to sink. Vincent walked half a step behind as Nyla headed toward the gate. He opened the door with an easy gesture, letting Nyla pass first.
Outside, the sounds of the city slowly crept in. A car waited by the curb. Vincent’s driver sat inside, not stepping out, not watching.
“Thank you for keeping me company,” Nyla said.
“Thank you for allowing me to,” Vincent replied.
He did not offer her a ride. He did not suggest dinner. He did not add plans. He simply stood there, leaving the decision with Nyla.
Nyla looked at the yellow flowers on the bench. She picked them up and lifted them slightly. “May I keep these?”
Vincent nodded. “They were yours from the beginning.”
Warmth spread through Nyla’s chest—not because of the flowers, but because of those words—yours. Without conditions.
Before they parted, Vincent said, “I didn’t come to replace anyone.”
Nyla met his gaze. “I know.”
“And I didn’t come to stay if you don’t want me to.”
Nyla nodded. “I know that too.”
She walked away with the flowers in her hand. No promises were spoken. No future was staked out. Yet her steps felt light.
In her mind, a sentence formed—simple and honest:
Maybe this is what love looks like when it doesn’t hurt.
She smiled—not at anyone else, but at herself.