“He never truly cared for this house,” she mentioned, placing a card on the table. said it was too quiet, too hidden away, but I loved it for that very reason. It felt like a place where things could heal. I nodded. It does feel that way. She looked at me then, her eyes reflecting the candle’s flicker. Do you feel like you’re healing, Zuul? I hesitated.
I don’t know, I admitted. Maybe I wasn’t aware that something needed healing until now. She offered a small smile and didn’t press further. She never did. And that was part of why I kept coming back because with her, silence was never a threat, but an invitation. One rainy Saturday, I arrived soaked once again.
She didn’t even greet me, just handed me a towel and a dry t-shirt that likely belonged to an ex, though I didn’t ask. I changed in the small guest bathroom, listening to the gentle jazz that drifted from her living room speakers. When I came out, she was curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book. “You look better already,” she said. “You’re like a plant.
You just needed some water and a clean shirt.” I laughed and settled into the corner opposite her. It had started to feel like my designated spot on that couch. We did nothing particularly memorable that evening. She read her book, and I closed my eyes, listening to the rain. Luna would occasionally shift in his sleep, and for a time, the world outside that small house ceased to exist.
But the comfort also scared me because I didn’t want to become reliant on something I wasn’t sure I deserved. One night, after she had fallen asleep on my shoulder during a movie, I quietly got up, grabbed my jacket, and left without a word. No note, no text. I just needed to breathe. I rode for almost an hour through the city, the cold wind hitting my face as if trying to remind me of who I was before all this softness entered my life.
But no matter how far I went, I couldn’t escape the image of her house in my mind. The warm light, the crooked candles, her hand resting gently on my knee during a conversation. The next morning, I showed up again. She opened the door, looked at me for a moment, and then said, “You left.” I nodded. “Yeah.” “Why?” I struggled to find the words.
I got scared, I said. Of what? That maybe I’m falling into something I can’t define. And I’ve never had anything like that before. It’s easier to disappear than to risk messing it up. Her expression didn’t show anger. She didn’t raise her voice. She just nodded slowly. You don’t have to run, Zuul. Not here.
Not from me. I stepped inside and for the first time in a very long while, I believed it. That night, we sat on her kitchen floor with cups of tea and talked about everything and nothing. Our favorite childhood snacks, places we dreamed of visiting, the worst jobs we ever had. She told me she once worked at a call center and was fired for being too honest.
I told her about the summer I tried busking downtown with a guitar I could barely play. Somewhere between laughing about our shared lack of musical talent and trying to recall the name of her middle school crush, I realized something. I didn’t want to go back to my old apartment anymore. Not just because hers was cozier, but because that space with its chipped mugs and well-loved books had begun to feel more like home than any place ever had.
I think she sensed it, too, because a few days later, she handed me a small key with a blue tag. “No pressure,” she said. “It’s just annoying when you have to knock and I’m in the bath.” I stared at it as if it were made of solid gold because in a way it was. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t have had it made if I wasn’t.” So, I took the key. And though I didn’t use it that night, I carried it with me every day after, like a promise I wasn’t quite ready to voice. Things didn’t magically transform into a fairy tale. There were still awkward silences, times when she would get lost in her thoughts, and I wouldn’t know whether to ask what was wrong or just sit with her until she was ready to speak.
There were days I would get stuck in my own head, wondering if I’d said too much or not enough. But the difference now was that we stayed. We stayed through the silence, through the questions, through the storms, both literal and metaphorical. One evening, I brought over a photo I found of me as a kid helping my mom in the garden.
Clara looked at it for a long time. Then she smiled. You were always kind, she said. Even before you had any reason to be. That night I slept on the couch and in the morning I woke to find her already in the kitchen flipping pancakes. I thought I’d make breakfast this time, she said. I rubbed my eyes and leaned against the door frame.
