There were nights when I'd sit by the window of my apartment, the city humming quietly beneath the soft breath of Manchester's wind, and wonder if love was always meant to ache this way. Gadis had not returned that night. Work, she said. But I knew what "work" often meant—long hours blurred with Ruben's presence, the silence that followed her texts, the way she avoided saying where she'd sleep.
I tried to believe her. I tried not to let my thoughts spiral into bitter shapes. But even silence could scream when you were waiting for someone who held your heart.
I leaned my head against the cold windowpane and watched as two silhouettes passed by below—hands entwined, laughter trailing behind them like perfume in the air. I envied them. I envied their freedom, their right to be in love without hiding. What did it feel like, to be able to kiss your lover under a streetlamp without glancing over your shoulder? To say "I miss you" and know the world would not judge?
With Gadis, our love was a secret garden behind tall walls. Beautiful, but invisible.
I remember once in London, she kissed me in public—bold and unafraid—just to show a man who had tried flirting with me that I belonged to someone. That moment had made me believe there was hope, that one day she might choose to live in truth. But here, back in Manchester, we lived behind drawn curtains again.
Six months had passed since the day she returned to me. Half a year of quiet mornings, of shared coffee cups and stolen evenings. Of watching her sleep and pretending I didn't mind when her phone buzzed with messages from someone else.
I told her once that I was okay with being her secret. That as long as I had her in some way, it would be enough. But the truth is, love does not shrink itself to fit in shadows. It demands light. And the longer we stayed in hiding, the more the light inside me dimmed.
"I think we should go on another trip," I said one afternoon as we lay tangled on my couch, her head resting on my chest. It was my way of asking for more of her. Of asking her to choose me, even just for a few days.
She looked up at me with weary eyes, apologetic, tired. "Work's too busy," she murmured. "And… I have to go home soon. My brother's wedding."
"And Anya's," I added bitterly.
She nodded. Her silence said more than words ever could.
I didn't ask if Ruben would be there. I didn't need to. I already knew.
Lately, their arguments had become more frequent. She never told me the details, but I could hear it in her voice when she'd talk to him near me. The tension. The guilt. A part of me—maybe the worst part—was glad. I wanted their love to crumble so mine could stand. I wanted him to let her go so she could finally be mine, not just in whispers and borrowed time.
But reality doesn't bend to longing.
That day, she didn't come back to me. And I sat alone in the park near campus, coffee cooling in my hands, drowning in the storm inside my mind. Mako found me there. Startled me from my thoughts with a soft tap on the shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked, his accent softening the question.
I nodded, barely. "Just… distracted."
"You didn't come to Professor Stuart's class."
I shook my head. "Couldn't focus."
"Boyfriend troubles?" he teased, even though he knew.
"Something like that," I said, laying my head down on the table.
Mako mirrored me, resting his chin on his hand, looking at me with curious eyes. "Are you happy?"
I closed my eyes. Was I?
I loved Gadis. Loved her with a hunger that never quieted. But I didn't sleep well most nights. My panic attacks had returned, though not as often as before. I wasn't sure if that meant I was healing or just surviving.
"I don't know," I whispered. "But I don't want to lose her."
"I've seen you with her," he said. "Your eyes change when she's near. But sometimes love isn't enough if it's always a secret."
I looked at him. "I used to believe I could live with just pieces of her. But now… those pieces hurt."
He nodded, understanding more than I said. Maybe because he knew what it felt like to love someone you couldn't always have. Or maybe because sometimes, pain recognizes pain.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. I thought about Gadis, wherever she was. I thought about the way she laughed when I played her favorite song on guitar. About the way she traced circles on my arm when she couldn't sleep. About how she'd once told me I made her feel like home.
And I wondered how long someone could feel like home and still leave.
"I don't want to be strong all the time," I said quietly.
"You don't have to," Mako replied. "But you deserve to be loved in daylight, Alya. Not just in between phone calls and guilt."
I smiled sadly. I knew he was right. But hearts don't let go as easily as logic does.
And even if this was a love I couldn't hold in public, it was still the only one I wanted to hold onto in the dark.