Two days after the park, he called me.
Not a text.
Not a voice note.
An actual call.
The screen lit up with his name and a quiet wave of nerves rolled over me.
You don't have to answer, my fear whispered.
But you want to, my heart replied.
So I picked up.
"Hey," I said, trying not to sound too breathless.
"Hey," he replied. "I wasn't sure if you'd answer."
"Neither was I," I said truthfully.
"I'm glad you did."
Silence. But not awkward. Just… breathing space.
Then he asked, gently
"Would you want to come to a small art exhibit this Saturday? Nothing fancy. Just a few friends, soft music, snacks. I have some work being displayed."
My throat tightened.
Not because I didn't want to go.
But because part of me still thought accepting kindness meant I owed something in return.
I used to say yes and immediately offer to help.
To serve.
To prove I belonged.
But this time, I paused.
And then I said
"Yes. I'd like that."
No apology. No explanation.
Just yes.
Saturday came with golden light.
I spent more time getting ready than I meant to not to impress, but to feel like myself again.
Soft brown dress.
A little lip balm.
Hair up, but not too perfect.
When I arrived, Elijah was waiting just outside the small art gallery, dressed in a charcoal-gray shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sketchbook under one arm.
"You came," he said, smiling as he opened the door for me.
"You invited me," I said, walking in beside him.
The gallery was quiet.
Not many people.
A few small paintings, some poetry prints on the wall, and light piano music playing from a speaker near the back.
It wasn't fancy.
It was intimate.
Just like him.
We walked slowly.
He pointed out pieces he liked.
Showed me which ones were his simple ink sketches of city buildings, but with people hidden in the windows.
"I draw architecture," he explained. "But I always add small stories inside the lines."
"You mean like the woman watering a dying plant on the third floor?"
"Exactly," he smiled. "You noticed."
"Of course. It feels like you. Quiet on the outside, but full of life if someone pays attention."
He looked at me then, eyes softer than I'd ever seen.
"That's how I see you too."
We stood in front of a small drawing labeled "Window, 7:03 PM."
It showed a person sitting alone on a couch, a journal open on their lap. No face, just posture.
But somehow, you could feel everything they were feeling.
"Is this one based on someone real?" I asked.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "But I didn't know her yet when I drew it."
I turned to him slowly.
"Me?"
He nodded once.
"I saw you sketching by the café window one evening. You looked tired, but peaceful. Like someone who'd been through too much to fake anything anymore."
My throat tightened.
"That was the week I stopped chasing Jayden."
"I didn't know your name back then," he said. "But I remembered your face. Or maybe just your energy."
I didn't know what to say.
Because this wasn't someone liking me for how I looked.
This was someone who noticed me when I wasn't trying to be seen.
And that kind of attention?
It didn't hurt.
It healed.
Later, he introduced me to a couple of friends soft-spoken artists and writers, all kind and easygoing.
No pressure.
No small talk traps.
Just people who welcomed my quiet.
It felt like breathing.
As we stood outside after the exhibit, the sky deepening into navy, Elijah turned to me.
"Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me."
"And for saying yes," he added. "Without apologizing."
I smiled at that.
"I'm learning."
"You're doing more than that," he said. "You're becoming."
And I didn't flinch.
I didn't argue.
I let the compliment land.
Because for once, I believed it too.
That night, I wrote:
I didn't perform today.
I didn't earn love by being useful.
I simply showed up. And that was enough.
I said yes… without guilt.
And somehow, that yes opened a door I'd locked for far too long.
I didn't give him a perfect version of me.
I gave him the one who showed up.
And that version it was finally enough.