Mireya woke up tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep could fix—but the kind that came from carrying too many thoughts. Jae's story stayed with her, not loudly, not painfully, but firmly. Like a hand resting on her shoulder.
She understood him more now.
And that scared her.
Understanding meant closeness.
Closeness meant risk.
At work, she tried to focus on routine. Floors. Supplies. Order. The things she could control. But her mind kept returning to one question she didn't know how to answer.
If I speak… what will it cost me?
"Mireya."
She looked up. Jae stood near the doorway, holding two cups again.
She sighed softly. "You're making this a habit."
He smiled. "I'm learning from experience."
She accepted the tea. Their fingers brushed briefly.
Neither mentioned it.
They walked together, not talking much. Silence followed them—but it wasn't heavy. It felt thoughtful.
"I didn't sleep well," Jae admitted.
"Me neither," she said.
That made him glance at her. "Thinking?"
She nodded. "Always."
They sat near the same window as before. Outside, clouds drifted slowly, the city moving without caring who watched.
"You don't have to say anything today," Jae said. "I know last night was… a lot."
She appreciated that more than he knew.
"I don't want you to feel like you owe me honesty," he continued. "I shared because I wanted to—not because I expected something back."
She studied his face. Calm. Open. No pressure.
"That matters," she said quietly.
Later, Hana cornered Mireya near the lockers.
"You've been quiet," Hana said.
Mireya blinked. "That's normal."
"No," Hana replied. "This is thinking quiet. Different category."
Mireya smiled faintly. "I'm deciding something."
Hana leaned against the wall. "About him?"
Mireya didn't answer—but she didn't deny it either.
Hana softened. "You don't have to rush, you know."
"I know," Mireya said. "But I don't want to hide forever."
Hana smiled. "That's growth. Terrifying, but impressive."
That evening, Mireya and Jae walked outside again. The sky was darker today, the air cooler.
They stopped near a small park across the street. The city noise felt distant here.
"I want to tell you something," Mireya said suddenly.
Jae froze—then relaxed himself. "Okay."
Her heart pounded.
She stared at the ground. "I wasn't always quiet."
He waited.
"When I was younger," she said, "I trusted easily. I spoke freely. I believed people meant what they said."
She swallowed.
"One day, I said something that mattered to me. Something honest." Her voice wavered. "And it was used against me."
Jae's expression changed—not shocked, not angry—just deeply attentive.
"So I learned," she continued, "that silence felt safer than being misunderstood."
She finally looked at him.
"I don't know how to unlearn that," she said.
Jae didn't move closer. Didn't interrupt.
"I won't ask you to," he said gently. "I just want to be someone who doesn't use your words against you."
Her chest tightened.
"That's a big promise," she whispered.
"I know," he replied. "I won't make it lightly."
They stood there, the air between them fragile and real.
A group of teenagers ran past them, laughing loudly. One almost tripped.
"Careful!" Mireya called out without thinking.
The girl laughed. "Sorry!"
Jae smiled. "See? You speak when it matters."
Mireya smiled too. "Only sometimes."
"Sometimes is enough," he said.
When it was time to part, Jae hesitated.
"I don't need answers," he said. "I just need time."
She nodded. "Me too."
As he walked away, Mireya touched her chest again.
Her heart was still afraid.
But it was also… hopeful.
And hope, she realized, was louder than silence.