Page 43 of The Words of Us

It sneaks up on you,

Soft as a whisper,

Sharp as a blade.

Love is not the kind of thing

That forgives easily.

It remembers the broken promises,

The things left unsaid,

And it holds them close

Like old scars

That never quite fade.

But love is the kind of thing

That waits, even when it shouldn’t.

It waits for the words to come,

For the fear to fade,

For the walls to crumble.

Love waits because it knows

That when the time comes,

When the fear is gone,

It will still be there,

Waiting.

Always waiting.”

The words hang in the air, suspended between me and the silent crowd. I don’t know what I expected—applause, maybe? But all I feel is the quiet weight of their attention, the way they’re watching me like they’re waiting for something more.

I close the journal, my hands still trembling, and step back from the microphone, my heart pounding. I don’t look up. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the empty space where I wanted Sasha to be, and I’m not sure I can handle that.

But then the door creaks open.

I glance up, my heart stuttering in my chest.

Sasha.

She’s standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, searching the room until they land on me. And behind her, just barely visible, is Glass, giving me a small smile.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. She’s here. She came.

For a moment, everything else fades away—the room, the crowd, the noise—and it’s just us. Just me and Sasha, standing on opposite sides of the room, both of us waiting for the other to make a move.

She hesitates, and then, slowly, she steps forward.

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