Held in Silence

The city looked different in the morning.

Less intimidating. Less polished.

From the balcony of the suite, I could see rooftops that didn't make it into the postcards — cluttered with air conditioners, laundry lines, half-painted walls. The version of the city that breathed when no one was watching.

I liked it more than I expected.

I wondered if Richard had ever looked beyond the skyline.

He was already dressed when I stepped into the shared lounge area — charcoal gray suit, coffee in hand, watching the news on low volume.

He turned when he heard me.

"I have two meetings this morning. I'll be back by three."

I nodded. "I was thinking of visiting the museum across the plaza."

"I'll have the driver wait for you downstairs."

I smiled, just faintly. "You know I'm capable of calling a cab, right?"

He looked at me like I'd just spoken another language.

"I know."

But he still sent the driver.

The museum was quiet.

Not many people on a weekday morning. Just students, a few tourists, and someone sketching in the corner with charcoal-smudged fingers.

I wandered without purpose.

Abstract paintings. Broken statues. A room filled with nothing but white canvases and a plaque that explained silence as the "purest emotional statement."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I found myself in front of a painting I couldn't name — a woman standing in a red dress, face obscured, hands tangled in her own hair.

It felt like someone had painted me without knowing I existed.

That's when my phone buzzed.

Layla:

Investor call today went well. He wants a full pitch deck by Friday. I'm terrified but excited. Wish you were here.

I smiled.

Even from miles away, she was chasing dreams while I learned how to breathe again.

I texted back:

I'm proud of you. You don't need me to be there to be brilliant.

She replied instantly:

Still wish you were.

Back at the suite, Richard wasn't back yet.

I curled up in one of the corner armchairs and pulled out my journal.

I didn't write anything.

Just held the pen like it might know what I was trying to say.

He came in a little after three, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled. A rare, unguarded version of him.

I looked up.

"How was the meeting?"

"Long."

He set his jacket down, loosened his tie, then hesitated.

"Do you want to go somewhere tonight?"

I blinked. "Like... where?"

"I don't know. Dinner. A walk. Anywhere that isn't this hotel."

It wasn't the suggestion that surprised me.

It was the way he said it — not like a command or an obligation, but like… a request.

"Okay," I said softly. "Let's go for a walk."

The air was cool but not cold. The kind that made you feel awake.

We didn't hold hands. We didn't talk much.

But something about the quiet was different now — less like a wall and more like a hallway. A space that led somewhere, even if we didn't know where yet.

We passed a bookstore. I paused in front of the window. He followed my gaze.

"Want to go in?"

I nodded.

Inside, it smelled like old paper and wood polish.

I wandered through the aisles, fingers brushing spines. He followed silently, only stopping when I picked up a slim volume of poetry.

I flipped through it, then said, "This reminds me of college."

He arched a brow. "You read poetry in college?"

"I devoured it."

He didn't tease me. Just asked, "What's it about?"

"Loss. And the things people carry long after they leave places behind."

He didn't say anything for a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper: "I think I carry too much.

I turned to face him.

It was the most honest thing he'd ever said to me.

Back at the suite, I placed the poetry book on the nightstand in the shared lounge. Richard stood at the window, watching the city again.

Then he said it.

"I wanted to kiss you the night of the gala."

I froze.

"I almost did," he added.

"Why didn't you?" My voice was soft. Barely there.

He turned slowly. "Because I didn't know if it was real."

"And now?"

A pause.

"I still don't know."

I walked toward him, each step quieter than the last.

"But you're thinking about it."

He nodded.

I stood in front of him now. Just close enough to feel his breath. But I didn't reach for him.

"I don't want something you're not sure of," I whispered.

"I'm not sure of anything," he admitted. "Except that I see you now. And that scares me."

I looked up at him — this man who had built walls so tall even he didn't remember what was on the other side.

"Then we start there," I said. "With seeing."

He didn't answer. But his eyes didn't leave mine.

And for the first time, I didn't feel like I was speaking to a stranger.

That night, we didn't kiss.

We didn't even touch.

But I left the door between our rooms slightly open.

And when I woke in the middle of the night, I saw his light still on.

Two shadows on either side of the same wall.

Learning, slowly, how not to be afraid of the cracks.