After the hug, something shifted.
Not the way I expected. Not in that warm, glowing way that stories sometimes promise. No—it shifted like loose gravel underfoot. Subtle. Unsteady.
Alice pulled back.
Not violently. Not even roughly. Just… abruptly. Like she'd suddenly remembered something she wasn't supposed to forget. Her arms dropped, and she angled her body away from me, shoulders stiff, gaze fixed somewhere over the rooftop ledge like it might explain what just happened.
The silence returned, but this time it wasn't comforting.
It prickled.
Uneasy. Awkward in a way it hadn't been before. Like we'd crossed a line neither of us had drawn, and now neither of us knew how to step back.
I stayed still for a beat, not wanting to make it worse. But the air between us had gone strange—thick with unspoken things—and I couldn't just sit in it.
So I reached out, slowly, carefully, and let my hand rest on her shoulder.
It was light. Barely a touch. But she flinched like I'd burned her.
"Alice," I said, voice low, tentative. "Are you okay?"
She didn't answer right away.
Her head turned slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of her profile in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted as if the words had gotten stuck halfway up her throat.
Then she blinked, fast, like trying to reset herself.
"I… I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly.
Then again, slower this time, like the words didn't fit right in her mouth.
"It's… not what you think."
Her voice cracked on the last syllable, and she winced like she'd heard it too. Her arms wrapped around herself, not cold exactly, but guarded. Like the hug we'd just shared had exposed something she wasn't ready to name.
And under the soft silver wash of moonlight, I saw it—
That unmistakable bloom of red spreading across her cheeks.
Not a shy flush. Not even an embarrassed one.
Something more complicated.
Something tangled.
And suddenly, I didn't feel any closer to understanding her.
I let my hand fall away.
Whatever line we'd crossed, pushing now would only drive her further back. But still, something in me refused to let the moment end like this—twisted and unfinished.
"I'm sorry," I said, quiet.
That made her blink again. She turned slightly, not all the way, just enough that her profile softened. "For what?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "For… stepping into something I didn't understand."
She let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it caught in her throat before it could form.
"I didn't mean to make things weird."
"They were already weird," she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere I couldn't follow. "Just… buried deeper."
I swallowed. The rooftop suddenly felt colder.
She glanced at me, just for a second, and in her expression was that flicker again—that tangle of something too heavy for the silence to hold.
"You don't have to tell me," I said, gently. "But… if you ever want to—I'll listen. I won't judge."
For a heartbeat, she didn't move.
Then, like a thread finally pulled loose, her shoulders sagged.
"I didn't come up here to talk," she said softly. "But I think I knew I would."
The wind stirred her hair. She didn't brush it away.
"There's something I haven't told anyone. Not really. Not since it happened."
She turned to face me fully now. Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes were tired. Haunted.
"I just need you to understand," she said. "It's not an easy story. And once I start… I might not be able to stop."
I nodded, barely breathing.
"I'm here."
Alice stood there for a long moment, the city lights below flickering like static, her breath forming pale ghosts in the air.
Then, slowly, her voice came—quiet and flat at first, like she was reading it off a page in her head.
"When I was little… my mom wasn't really there. Not in the way she should've been. She was always chasing something—men, mostly. And they came and went like storms. Loud. Messy."
She paused, drawing in a sharp breath.
"Some of them just yelled. Broke things. Left bruises on the walls. Others…"
Her jaw clenched.
"I learned to stay small. Quiet. Invisible. I got really good at pretending things didn't hurt. At making myself disappear when the door creaked open."
The words hung in the air, fragile and heavy.
"I told myself it was normal. That other kids just didn't talk about it. But I knew. I knew."
She looked at me then—not directly, but enough that I felt the weight of her gaze.
"And when I finally got out… I promised myself I'd never let anyone make me feel that powerless again. Never let anyone close enough to even try."
I didn't speak. I couldn't.
She laughed, soft and bitter.
"But here I am. Talking to you on some rooftop like it's nothing."
Her arms wrapped around her again, tighter this time.
"I don't know what it is about you, Adam," she said, almost to herself. "Maybe it's just… easier to talk to someone who's also seen the cracks. Who didn't grow up with safety as a given."
A beat passed.
"Or maybe," she added, so faintly I almost missed it, "we're both just good at hiding in plain sight."
And with that, she turned away again, letting the silence swallow her words.
But the hint lingered. Like a thread pulled taut between us—unspoken, but real.
For a long time, neither of us said anything.
Alice's story hung between us like the fading cold—still present, but beginning to lift as the first hints of dawn touched the edge of the sky. I watched her in the half-light, her arms still wrapped around herself, her gaze distant, but her shoulders just a little looser. Like the telling had stolen some of the weight from them.
The sun began to rise, slow and silent, casting soft gold across the rooftop.
And in that light, she looked different.
Not fragile—never fragile—but real in a way that almost hurt to look at. Her hair caught the sun like embers, and her skin, pale from the cold, softened in the warmth of it. Her eyes, rimmed in quiet exhaustion, still held that guarded storm—but also something else. A flicker. Like part of her had surfaced, unsure if it was safe to stay.
I took a slow breath.
All this time, I thought what I felt around her was guilt. Or helplessness. That ache in my chest, that weight when I looked at her—I told myself it was sympathy. Or the echo of something familiar. Trauma recognizing trauma.
The warmth of the rising sun brushed against my skin, soft and steady, like the world itself was starting over. Beside me, Alice hadn't moved. She stood in silence, her eyes following the horizon like it held answers she hadn't dared ask for.
I looked at her—really looked.
Not just at her shape or her shadow, but the way the morning light framed her, kissed the line of her jaw, lit up the strands of her hair like threads of fire. The way her silence said more than most people's words. The way she had just handed me something raw and painful and real… and trusted me to hold it.
And in that moment, I knew.
It wasn't confusion.
It wasn't guilt.
It wasn't the familiar ache of past wounds echoing back at me.
It was love.
Quiet. Slow. Unshakable.
The kind that doesn't ask for anything in return—just the chance to exist beside someone who finally sees you.
I didn't say it out loud.
Not yet.
But the words sat there in my chest, solid and certain:
I love her.
Maybe she'd never feel the same. Maybe she would. But for now, it was enough just to know.
The sun climbed higher, and Alice finally turned to me. Her eyes met mine for a second—just a second—and in them, I saw it.
Not a confession.
Not a promise.
But a flicker of something that felt like the beginning of both.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
And neither did I.
Not yet.