Page 17 of Love Letters from a Libra
Minutes passed this way, or maybe longer. Time felt stretched and compressed at once, the way it did in moments of pure presence. I noticed everything: the small callus on her right thumb, probably from writing, the faint pulse I could feel through her wrist, the way her lips had softened naturally, more at ease.
When she finally looked up at me, something shifted. Her eyes, usually sharp and evaluating, had deepened somehow, like clear water suddenly revealing its true depth. Then, a shimmeras actual moisture gathered at her lower lids. Not enough to fall, just enough to signal something unexpected happening beneath the surface.
“Allow yourself to see and to be seen,” Sarena said softly.
The tear finally formed in the corner of Zanaa’s eye, hovering before tracing a path down her cheek. She blinked rapidly, frustration flashing across her features. I watched as she swallowed hard, jaw tightening briefly before relaxing again. Whatever emotion surfaced, she clearly hadn’t invited it. Zanaa seemed annoyed at her body’s betrayal, at this crack in her facade.
I remained steady. I continued to breathe, to be present, to hold the space between us without demanding it be filled with explanation.
“This is where we remember our shared humanity, the place where we meet beyond words.” Sarena blew a soft breath.
Another tear followed the first, and Zanaa gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. I returned it with warmth.
She needed space, not questions. She needed room to feel whatever was moving through her without having to label it, justify it, or package it for someone else’s consumption. So I gave Zanaa what I wished I’d been given: presence without pressure, attention without expectation.
Her breathing changed again, a slightly shaky inhale followed by a controlled exhale, but our bodies were having a conversation that bypassed words entirely.
Our physical sensations intensified as we continued. The point where our palms met grew warmer, almost hot. It reminded me of those moments in combat when everything narrowed to the essentials: breath, heartbeat, and the present second stretching infinitely in both directions. But this wasn’t combat. This was the opposite, a surrender into connection rather than a preparation for conflict.
Around us, other couples were having their own experiences. Some stared intently into each other’s eyes, others had closed their eyes completely. A few were smiling, while one woman quietly cried. But in our little island of space, there was just us, Zanaa and me.
When Sarena finally spoke again, her voice was quiet. “Slowly, with intention, begin to withdraw your hands. Not in rejection, but in completion. Honor the connection that was created.”
Zanaa’s fingers curled slightly, the barest pressure against my palms before she pulled away. Her absence was immediate and profound, like a cold front moving in where warmth had been. I lowered my hands to my knees, her touch lingering on my skin.
She didn’t look away this time. Her eyes were clear now, but somehow deeper, and held mine with new steadiness. Whatever storm passed through her had left something changed in its wake—not broken, but rearranged. More authentic.
“Thank you,” Sarena said to the room, but it felt like Zanaa was saying it to me with her eyes, with the slight nod she gave before finally breaking our gaze.
In the service, I learned to read people, cataloging their tales, anticipating their next moves. But this quiet unfolding of another person, without an agenda or strategy, felt like a different kind of revelation altogether. Zanaa had trusted me enough to let me see her uncertainty. That was worth more than any confident display could ever be.
The night air hit different after an hour of synchronized breathing, and both of us basked in the lingering intimacy. Zanaa hadn’t mentioned her tears, and I didn’t bring it up. Some vulnerabilities were more powerful when left unacknowledged. Zanaa walked beside me, closer than before, our arms occasionally brushing as we navigated the crowded sidewalk. She hadn’t said much since we gathered our things and slipped on our shoes, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the quiet of two people processing something they didn’t expect to experience.
“There’s an open market nearby. Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m starving. Apparently, aligning chakras burns calories.”
I chuckled. “Most definitely,” I agreed, patting my belly.
We paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. She stood close enough that I felt the heat from her body, her shoulder occasionally pressing against my arm as people pushed past. I wanted to make a move, put my arm around her or take her hand, signaling that this was heading in a romantic direction. But something told me that I would be rushing what was unfolding naturally between us. So I just stood there, allowing her to set the pace.
Zanaa finally spoke, her voice slightly lower than usual. “That was not what I expected.”
I glanced at her profile. “Good unexpected or ‘never again’ unexpected?”
“Good, I think. Different.” She tucked a stray curl that had escaped her bun behind her ear.
I navigated her into the market, where we passed a row of food carts. Their awnings lit up against the darkening sky. Zanaa slowed, as we approached one selling tropical fruit cut into elaborate shapes, her gaze lingering on a display of candied mango sprinkled with chili powder.
Before she commented, I stepped toward the vendor. “Two, please.”
The vendor handed me two paper boats of golden mango slices, glistening with sugar and dusted with red chili. I offered one to Zanaa, who accepted it.
“You seem like a mango girl,” I noted, biting into a piece of my own.
She narrowed her eyes, playfulness in her expression. “And what does that mean exactly?”
I considered her as I chewed, taking my time with the answer. The sweetness of the fruit was so good with the heat of the chili, and it worked together better than I imagined.
