The world didn't stop being normal. That was what made it difficult. If everything had broken—if the sky had split, if time had stuttered in obvious ways, if something undeniable had forced itself into reality—then Liora would have known what to do. React. Run. Reject it. But nothing did. Everything stayed exactly the same. And now she knew that was the lie.
She didn't go looking for him. Not immediately. Not because she didn't want to. Because she did. That was the problem.
Liora sat by the window in the library, her book open in front of her, unread. The late afternoon light stretched across the table in soft lines, the quiet hum of the room settling into something calm, something familiar. Something safe. She watched it—not the people, not the movement, but the space between things.
A page turned somewhere behind her. Too softly. Too evenly.
A pen rolled across a table two rows over. It should have fallen. It didn't. It slowed—just slightly—before stopping against the edge.
Liora exhaled quietly. "…Still there."
It was getting easier to see. Not everything. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to notice the difference between what should happen and what was allowed to.
She closed her book. Not because she was finished. Because she hadn't read a single word.
"…This isn't going away."
The realization settled in without resistance. Because she already knew.
And neither was he.
She stood, gathering her things slowly, her movements deliberate but unhurried. She didn't think about where she was going. Not consciously. She just went.
---
The park was quieter than usual. Not empty. Never empty. But the noise felt distant here, softened by routine, by the familiar rhythm of people passing through without really stopping. She found the bench. Of course she did.
For a moment, she didn't sit. Because he wasn't there.
Liora stared at the empty space beside her, something tightening faintly in her chest before she could stop it. "…Right."
She sat anyway.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just present. She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting upward toward the sky as the fading light shifted slowly.
"…I don't know what I'm doing."
A moment passed. Then another.
"You came anyway."
She didn't startle. "…Yeah."
Adrian sat beside her like he had always been there. Or like he had just arrived. It didn't matter anymore.
"…You weren't here," she said.
"I was."
"…Not like that."
"…No."
She let out a quiet breath, her gaze still forward. "…You're not trying to make this easier."
"No."
"…You could."
"Yes."
"…And you don't."
"No."
"…Why?"
He didn't answer immediately. "…Because it wouldn't be real."
The words landed differently than anything else he had said. Not heavy. Just clear.
"…And this is?"
"Yes."
"…Even like this?"
"Yes."
Even with everything wrong. Even with everything she didn't understand.
"…That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to."
"…You say that a lot."
"Because it's true."
She shook her head faintly, but there was no real resistance behind it. "…I saw more today."
He didn't interrupt.
"Not just around me," she continued. "Everywhere. It's getting worse."
"Yes."
"…And you're still not worried."
"No."
She studied him. "…You really believe that, don't you?"
"Yes."
That certainty hadn't changed. Not once.
"…I don't know how to feel about that."
"You don't have to decide yet."
"…You always say that like I have time."
"You do."
"…That's easy for you to say."
"…No," Adrian said quietly. "It isn't."
That made her look back. "…What does that mean?"
For a moment, something shifted in him. "…It means I'm using it."
"…Using it how?"
A pause. "…To make sure you have it."
Liora's breath caught slightly. "…That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Silence settled again, but this time it wasn't heavy.
"…You're unfair," she said quietly.
He didn't respond.
"…You say things like that like they're simple," she continued, softer now. "…But they're not."
"No."
That made it worse.
"…I don't understand you."
"You don't need to."
"…I think I do."
"…Why?"
She hesitated. "…Because I'm still here."
The words came out softer than she expected.
"…Yes."
The same word. Not the same meaning.
"…That's not a good reason."
"No."
"…Then why does it feel like one?"
"…Because it's yours."
It didn't make sense. But it stayed.
She exhaled slowly. "…I don't want everything else to disappear just because I don't."
"I know."
"…But you'll let it."
"Yes."
There it was again.
She closed her eyes for a second. "…You're not going to change."
"No."
"…Even if I asked you to."
"…No."
That should have hurt more.
Instead, it settled.
"…That's really selfish."
"Yes."
No defense. No denial.
"…I should hate you for that."
"Yes."
"…I don't."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence followed. Still.
"…That's a problem."
"Yes."
And still—he didn't try to fix it.
She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting upward again as the sky dimmed.
"…Everything feels different now."
"Yes."
"…But this doesn't."
That was the strangest part.
She turned her head slightly. "…Why?"
"…Because I didn't change it."
For once—it made sense.
She held his gaze for a moment longer before looking away again.
"…That might be worse."
"…I know."
Another silence settled. But this one felt closer.
Not resolved. Not fixed.
Just—
Shared.
And for now—
That was enough.