The Weight Between Us

Chapter 7 — The Quiet Attachment

The following days became part of a routine neither of them planned.

Every afternoon, after classes ended,

would find herself walking toward the park almost automatically. And almost every time,

he was already there.

Sometimes he arrived first.

Sometimes she did.

But somehow, they always met.

At first, their conversations stayed simple.

Random school complaints.

Funny childhood memories.

Arguments about movies.

But slowly, without noticing it, they started talking about deeper things again.

One evening, while orange sunlight reflected across the fountain water, Drecel suddenly asked,

“What do you actually miss the most?”

Jerinah looked at him.

“About?”

“The person you lost.”

The question immediately made her chest tighten.

Most people avoided mentioning it directly.

But Drecel asked carefully.

Not forcefully.

Jerinah stared down at her hands.

“The small things,” she admitted softly.

“Like?”

She smiled weakly.

“Late-night messages. Someone checking if I already ate. Someone remembering tiny details about me.”

Drecel listened quietly.

“I think,” she continued, “people underestimate how painful silence becomes after losing someone.”

The wind moved softly around them.

“Because when someone becomes part of your daily life…” She paused briefly. “Their absence starts appearing everywhere.”

Drecel nodded slowly.

“I understand that part.”

Jerinah looked at him carefully.

“You really loved your grandfather, huh?”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“He basically raised me.”

“What was he like?”

“He always stayed calm,” Drecel answered. “Even during bad situations.”

“That explains you.”

“Insult or compliment?”

“Both.”

He laughed softly.

Then his expression softened again.

“When he died,” he admitted quietly, “I became obsessed with understanding life.”

Jerinah listened carefully.

“I thought if I became wise enough,” he continued, “maybe pain would stop affecting me so much.”

“And did it work?”

Drecel stayed quiet for a few seconds.

“Not really.”

That honesty surprised her.

“You know,” Jerinah muttered, “you’re less annoying lately.”

“Wow. Emotional growth.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

They both laughed quietly.

For the first time in months, Jerinah started feeling something unfamiliar.

Safety.

And that terrified her.

Because every time she became emotionally attached to someone, life eventually found a way to take them away.

That night, while lying in bed, she stared at her ceiling again.

But unlike before, her thoughts were different.

Not completely dark.

Just confused.

Because now, alongside sadness, another feeling existed.

Hope.

And hope scared her more than loneliness sometimes.