Link (Chapter 2) - Chapter 2: Half-Finished Sentences
Arin didn’t know what “next time” meant for Mira, but he replayed it through the night anyway.
The way she said it.
The way she looked at him afterward.
Like she already knew exactly what she wanted — and maybe she hoped he’d figure it out too.
By the next afternoon, he had half-written three lines of a poem he didn’t understand and drank two coffees he didn’t need.
At 4:12 PM, his phone buzzed.
Mira:
Stop pretending you’re not thinking about yesterday.
Come to my place. 6 PM. Bring your notebook.
Arin blinked at the screen.
He typed back a cautious:
Your place? Isn’t that too soon?
Her reply arrived instantly.
It made his pulse stutter.
If it were too soon, I wouldn’t have asked.
He stared at that line longer than he needed to.
6 PM
Mira lived on the third floor of a brick building tucked between a bakery and a tattoo studio. Warm lights glowed behind her windows, and he could hear faint music when he knocked — something soft, slow, atmospheric.
The door opened before he could brace himself.
Mira stood there barefoot, in leggings and an oversized off-shoulder sweater that didn’t bother hiding how gifted time had been to her curves. Her hair was loose again, falling like she’d shaken it free minutes before he arrived.
“You’re early,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.
“You said six.”
“I know. You’re still early.”
She smiled like she enjoyed that.
Her apartment smelled like vanilla candles and faint ink — the scent of someone who lived around paper and stories. Books stacked on shelves, notes pinned to walls, drafts on the coffee table. A creative chaos that somehow suited her perfectly.
“You write here?” he asked, looking around.
“I write everywhere,” she said, closing the door. “But this… this is where the real things happen.”
Her tone carried a quiet intimacy, not sexual — but something equally dangerous.
She sat cross-legged on the couch and patted the seat beside her.
“Come on. If you sit in that stiff wooden chair, I’ll feel like I’m being interviewed.”
He hesitated only a second before joining her. Their knees touched lightly. Neither pulled away.
Mira opened her notebook, flipping to a blank page.
“Arin, I invited you because you’re honest when you talk about feelings, even if you don’t realize it. I… need that.”
“Why me?” he asked.
“Because,” she said, turning toward him, “you look at things like they matter.”
She didn’t specify what things meant.
She didn’t have to.
He caught her watching him — not in a way meant to fluster, but in a way that searched for something true in his expression.
“What did you want to show me?” he asked finally.
She closed the notebook gently.
“Not show,” she said. “Share.”
Her voice lowered.
“Arin, I haven’t let anyone read this chapter yet. Not a single person. I hate half of it, but keeping it to myself is starting to feel like hiding.”
He softened. “Then why trust me?”
Mira inhaled slowly.
“Because yesterday, standing under that tree, you looked at my words like they were meant for you.”
Her honesty hit him with more force than anything physical could.
He held her gaze. “They felt like they were.”
The silence that followed wasn’t quiet.
It hummed.
Mira turned the notebook toward him again, but instead of pointing to her writing, she leaned in slightly.
“Before you read,” she murmured, “tell me something first.”
“What?”
“Tell me one more line.”
Her eyes softened.
“Not for the poem. For me.”
Arin’s breath caught.
He didn’t think — he answered.
Mira blinked slowly, the line hitting her deeper than he meant it to.
“That’s…” She exhaled. “Arin, you don’t know what you do with words.”
He swallowed. “Neither do you.”
Their faces were close now — not enough to touch, but close enough that if either of them leaned a fraction forward, the moment would break into something neither could take back.
Mira held the notebook against her chest, as if steadying herself.
“Read the chapter,” she whispered. “Please.”
He nodded, taking the notebook from her hands, fingers brushing hers.
She didn’t move away.
He began reading her pages, the room dim except for the warm lamp beside them. Mira watched him with nervous eyes, and he read with the quiet intensity she’d noticed the first day.
After a minute, he paused.
“Mira… this isn’t bad. It’s raw. It’s honest.”
She looked down. “It scares me.”
“Good writing is supposed to,” he said softly.
She lifted her eyes again — slow, deliberate, almost vulnerable.
“Does this scare you?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he didn’t know — but because the truth felt heavy on his tongue.
Finally, Arin said, very quietly: “Yes.”
Mira leaned back on the couch, her sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone.
A small, almost knowing smile touched her lips.
“Good,” she whispered.
“Then we’re both in the same place.”
... Chapter 4
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