I WISH I NEVER DID

Chapter Eighteen: The Ones Who Stayed

Ruth didn’t expect the knock.

She checked the time — barely 4:10 PM.

Then opened the door to find Theo, holding a small backpack and standing beside a younger girl — about 13, maybe 14.

“Hey,” he smiled, a little awkward. “Hope you don’t mind. This is my sister, Nia.”

Nia waved half-heartedly.

“You said tutoring, right?” Ruth asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” Theo chuckled. “I meant it. Wasn’t just an excuse to talk to you. Well… not entirely.”

Nia rolled her eyes.

“You said she was cool. She looks like a strict one.”

“I am cool,” Ruth said, stepping aside. “Strict and cool.”

Nia shrugged, walked in.

Ruth glanced at Theo as she shut the door.

“She’s got your sarcasm.”

“She got it from me. You’ll like her — eventually.”

Meanwhile, in the café two blocks down, Mark was still recovering from Zara’s sudden question.

“Do you… like poetry?”

“I mean, I read lyrics like poems. That count?”

“Close enough.”

Zara sipped her drink.

“There’s a poetry mic night I help organize. Low-key. Just students, coffee, and quiet words.”

“Sounds... terrifying.”

She smirked.

“You’ll survive. Come if you want. Friday at seven. No pressure.”

“So you’re reading?”

“Maybe,” she said. “If the mood’s right.”

“Then I’m coming. I want to hear the hoodie girl speak in full sentences.”

Zara laughed. A soft one — rare.

“You’re not bad, Mark.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

Across town, Eli and Amina walked side by side down a quiet street. She was mid-laugh — something about a childhood story he was embarrassed to tell.

He nudged her gently with his shoulder.

She bumped him back. Easy. Natural.

And that’s when Lina saw them.

She was across the street, barely a dozen steps away, heading out of a pharmacy. Bag in hand. No makeup. Just tired.

She stopped.

They hadn’t noticed her yet.

Eli was holding Amina’s hand.

And Amina was smiling — that real kind. That deep one.

He said something, and she leaned in, resting her head briefly on his shoulder before pulling away with a smirk.

Lina couldn’t breathe for a second.

That should’ve been her.

Her hand in his.

Her laugh in the air.

Her memory, not someone else's moment.

But she turned.

Walked away.

And this time… it wasn’t with pride.

The world doesn’t pause when you leave.

It spins. It blooms.

And sometimes the person you let go…

learns how to be loved better.

Almost Late, Still Right

The poetry night had already started.

The lights inside the little campus lounge were dimmed, floor cushions scattered around low tables, candles flickering near speakers.

Zara was tucked in the corner, hoodie off for once — hair pinned loosely back, a stack of pages in her lap. Her eyes scanned the door.

Nothing.

She looked down.

On stage, a tall guy read something angry and honest. People snapped their fingers politely, but Zara wasn’t listening.

She folded the top page of her poem… then unfolded it again. Her phone was face down beside her, untouched.

When they called her name, she hesitated for a breath too long.

Then stood.

Her voice was softer than usual, careful —

The words not performed but released, like something she’d been holding back for months.

The room went still.

Then the door creaked open.

Mark.

Messy hair. Slightly out of breath. Jacket half-zipped. But he froze when he saw her on stage — eyes locked for a second too long.

Zara’s voice faltered — just barely — then picked up again like nothing happened.

When she finished, the room clapped gently.

Zara stepped off the stage, heading straight toward her spot in the corner — but Mark intercepted her.

“You came,” she said, quietly.

“Almost didn’t make it,” he replied, grinning. “Got lost. Twice. But I’m here.”

“You missed most of it.”

“Didn’t miss you.”

Zara looked at him, unreadable for a moment.

Then she exhaled softly, like she’d been holding something in since she got there.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” Mark said. “But not for the reason you think.”

She tilted her head.

“I almost didn’t… because I wasn’t sure how it’d feel seeing you on stage, doing what you love — and me being just some guy who noticed your hoodie.”

“You’re not just some guy,” she said, almost immediately.

Silence.

And then she reached for his wrist — fingers brushing lightly, deliberately.

Just a touch.

“Sit with me?” she asked.

Mark nodded.

And in that moment, the noise faded around them.

Meanwhile, across campus…

Ruth sat beside Nia at the open tutoring room, pointing at a math problem but letting the conversation drift.

“You’re good at this,” Nia muttered.

“I try.”

“Most people treat me like I’m stupid.”

“You’re not. You’re just… tired of pretending like you’re not bored in class.”

Nia cracked a smile.

“You sound like Theo.”

“Guess it runs in the family.”

Nia paused.

“He talks about you.”

Ruth blinked.

“He does?”

“He never talks about girls.”

“Well,” Ruth said, faking calm, “I’m not just some girl.”

“I know,” Nia replied. “You’re different.”

Outside, Theo leaned against the doorframe quietly, watching them.

He didn’t interrupt.

He just listened — and smiled to himself.

Sometimes, showing up late still counts.

Sometimes, sitting down is more powerful than standing out.

And sometimes, being seen — really seen — is all it takes to begin.

A Little Too Obvious

Eli was halfway through his iced coffee when he spotted Mark walking toward him across campus — hoodie tossed over his shoulder, hair a mess, and something smug on his face.

“You look like someone who didn’t sleep,” Eli called out.

“Didn’t,” Mark replied. “Worth it.”

Eli raised an eyebrow.

“Zara?”

Mark just grinned.

They walked side by side now, quiet for a few steps.

“So…?”

“So I showed up,” Mark said. “She was already on stage. Looked like she was about to give up on me showing.”

“Classic you.”

“Classic her too. She didn’t say anything. Just… looked at me like she’d been waiting.”

“Did you tell her you’d come?”

“Nah. Wanted it to be a surprise. Didn’t expect to stay for the whole thing.”

Eli gave a mock nod.

“But you did.”

“Stayed. Listened. Escorted her back.”

“And?”

Mark smirked, eyes flicking sideways.

“We kissed. Just once.”

Eli stopped for a second.

Then laughed.

“You’re serious?”

“She’s not what I expected,” Mark said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I like it. I like her.”

“Damn,” Eli said. “Poetry night got you in your feels.”

Mark shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

“What about you?” he asked. “You and Amina. Is that official yet?”

Eli looked down at the ground as they walked.

“Yeah. It is.”

“You told her you love her yet?”

Eli hesitated.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because when I do… I want to mean it so clearly that there’s no doubt. Not for her, not for me.”

Mark nodded slowly.

“That makes sense.”

They reached the courtyard, sunlight falling in soft stripes through the trees.

“You do love her though,” Mark added.

Eli didn’t reply right away.

He looked up, across the lawn, and smiled — like the thought had been sitting in him for a while.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I really do.”

Sometimes the first “I love you”

doesn’t come with a kiss.

It comes in a conversation —

shared with someone who knows

what it means to feel deeply

and wait anyway.

The scene shifted seamlessly to the quiet tutoring room where Ruth sat across from Nia, her tone patient and warm as she guided the younger girl through a tricky math problem.

“There you go, that’s it,” Ruth encouraged, smiling as Nia’s face lit up.

“You’re good at this,” Nia said quietly.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Ruth replied.

As the session ended,

Before leaving, Theo pulled Ruth aside gently.

“You’ve been good with her. Better than I expected.”

Ruth looked up, surprised but pleased.

“Thanks. She’s easier than I thought.”

Theo smiled softly.

“So, what about you? You’re letting yourself enjoy this, aren’t you?”

Ruth hesitated, then nodded.

“I think I am.”

They shared a quiet look, something unspoken passing between them — a small moment of understanding before they stepped out into the evening light.

Sometimes the best stories start with a simple hello,

A shared laugh,

Or the courage to show up again.

The Words That Stayed

It was the kind of evening that whispered secrets —

soft wind, distant city sounds, the golden afterglow of sunset.

Eli and Amina walked in comfortable silence, their hands gently brushing until they finally linked.

They stopped by the edge of the botanical gardens, now closed, the iron gate casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

She leaned against the gate, facing him.

He looked at her — really looked — like he was trying to memorize the way her smile folded slightly to the left when it was real.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he replied.

“About?”

He stepped a little closer.

“You. Us. Everything we’ve become.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. She was listening.

“I was scared I’d never feel this again,” he said. “Not after... everything before.”

“Lina,” she said, without spite — just understanding.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “But then I met you. And it wasn’t loud, or dramatic... it was just you. Showing up, again and again. Making me feel like... maybe I was still worth something.”

Amina’s gaze softened.

“You are.”

He reached for her hand again.

“I love you,” he said, voice steady. “And I don’t want to wait another day to say it.”

She smiled, full and real — the kind that left no room for doubt.

“Took you long enough,” she teased.

Then leaned in and kissed him — slow, quiet, sure.

I love you too El— I've loved you since the first time I saw you.

And I promise to be by your side, always babe "she added".

And for a moment, it felt like the world paused just for them.

They stood there, forehead to forehead, letting the quiet carry the weight of everything they didn’t need to say.

It doesn’t always come with fireworks.

Sometimes it’s the warmth of a hand,

The echo of laughter in silence,

The steady beat of two hearts learning

to trust again.

Just Us

It was Saturday afternoon when Eli texted her:

“Wear something comfortable. And maybe bring a sweater.”

Amina stared at the message, eyebrows raised but intrigued.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you’ve never been.”

The sun was beginning its descent when Eli pulled up outside her place.

She stepped out, hair tied loosely, wearing soft denim and sneakers, a light hoodie wrapped around her waist.

“You look like you’re up to something,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“I am,” he grinned. “And you’re gonna love it.”

They drove past the usual parts of the city — past the cafes, the bookstores, the campus — and kept going until the streets thinned and the buildings faded into trees.

The car rolled to a stop near a narrow path that led upward between tall grass and old stones.

“This way,” Eli said, grabbing a small blanket from the back seat.

“We’re hiking?” she asked, amused.

“Just a little. Trust me.”

Ten minutes later, they crested the edge of a quiet hill.

And there it was.

An old, abandoned stone lookout point, covered in wild vines, overlooking the far side of the city. The kind of place forgotten by most — but not by Eli.

“I used to come here,” he said, unfolding the blanket near the edge. “When I needed to breathe.”

Amina looked around — the way the sky touched everything, the distant hum of the city below, the breeze tugging at her sleeves.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

They sat down, legs crossed, shoulders close.

“It’s better with someone,” he added.

“I can see that.”

Time slowed.

They talked about silly things first — bucket lists, weird childhood snacks, songs they secretly loved.

Then it turned quiet again.

Not awkward. Just still.

Eli pulled out his phone, played a soft track — lo-fi beats and piano notes drifting into the evening air.

Then he stood up and offered her his hand.

“Dance with me?”

“There’s no one here,” she laughed.

“Exactly.”

So she stood.

And they danced.

Slowly. Clumsily. Perfectly.

She rested her head against his chest.

He breathed her in like peace.

Later, as the sun sank completely, Amina looked at him and said softly:

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Thank you for coming.”

She smiled, fingers brushing his cheek.

“It feels like… this moment is just ours.”

“It is,” he whispered.

And in that place the world forgot,

two people remembered what it meant to be safe.

It doesn’t need an audience.

Love just needs space —

To breathe,

To hold,

To remind you that being seen

can feel like coming home.