I WISH I NEVER DID

Chapter Thirteen: Before You Fade Again

Eli didn’t plan to show up at her place.

But the fourth unread message, the third “maybe tomorrow,” and the second time he caught himself refreshing her chat thread — it all became too loud to ignore.

So he walked.

No umbrella, no warning. Just the quiet evening and the weight in his chest.

Amina lived in an apartment tucked behind a bakery that always smelled like vanilla.

When she opened the door, she looked surprised.

Not annoyed. Not scared.

Just surprised someone had come looking without being asked.

“You didn’t call.”

“You didn’t answer.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

Then she stepped aside, let him in.

The room was small, warm, and dim.

Sketches on the wall. Mugs with dried paint. A blanket draped carelessly over the couch like it had seen too many sad nights.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” she said, voice low.

Eli didn’t sit. He just stood, watching her.

“But you did.”

She nodded once.

“I saw you the other day,” he added. “Outside the bookstore.”

Amina froze.

“That was my brother. Half-brother,” she clarified. “Complicated.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Maybe not. But I want to give one.”

She finally looked at him — not away, not around him. At him.

“I pull away when things feel real. I hate it, but I do it anyway. I get scared, and I think — if I leave first, I won’t have to watch someone else do it.”

He took a slow breath.

“And did that help this time?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Then don’t do it again.”

She stepped forward, her voice shaking slightly.

“You make it easy to feel safe, Eli. That scares me.”

He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“I’d rather scare you with honesty than comfort you with space.”

“And what if I mess this up?” she asked.

He smiled softly. “Then we’ll both sit in the mess until it makes sense again.”

That’s when her hand found his — and held it tight this time. Not light. Not testing.

He looked down. Then up.

“I don’t say this easily,” he said. “Or often.”

Amina didn’t breathe.

“But I love you.”

She blinked.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

He did.

“I love you.”

This time, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t hide.

She stared at him like she was searching for cracks in the words.

And when she found none, her lips parted — almost a smile.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured. Then stepped even closer.

“I’ve been loving you quietly. I just didn’t trust it yet.”

Her voice caught.

“But now I do.”

And just like that, she leaned her forehead against his chest.

“So stay.”

Love didn’t knock the air out of them.

It didn’t crash through windows or demand to be chased.

It stood still.

Offered itself gently — no rush, no performance.

And this time, both of them said it.

One out loud.

The other in her own language:

Stay.

And moments after that,

It was Ruth who called first.

Not texted — called.

No “hey” or “you busy?” Just:

“So. You told her?”

Eli chuckled. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“She asked me to stay.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Good,” Ruth said softly. “Because I like her. Even when I tried not to.”

“Why would you try not to?”

“Because I didn’t want her to be another story I had to help you clean up after.”

Eli leaned back in his chair, quiet.

“She’s not,” he finally said. “This one’s… different.”

Ruth exhaled. “Yeah. I know.”

At school, Mark was less subtle.

He spotted Eli in the hallway, narrowed his eyes like he’d found the secret sauce.

“You’re smiling again. It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t start,” Eli muttered.

“You told her, didn’t you?”

Eli didn’t answer.

“Knew it. You’ve got that ‘I-said-it-and-she-didn’t-run’ face.”

Eli couldn’t help the small grin that followed.

“So what now? You two start dressing alike? Matching bios?”

Eli gave him a look.

“Okay, okay,” Mark laughed. “But real talk — I’m happy for you. She seems solid. Sharp. Like someone who sees you.”

“She does,” Eli said.

“Lucky you,” Mark muttered, almost too low to hear.

Eli noticed. But didn’t press. Not yet.

That evening, Amina texted:

“I told my sister about you.”

Eli stared at the message for a second.

“What’d she say?”

“She said: it’s about time.”

When It’s Real, People Notice

Real love doesn’t live in a vacuum.

It breathes through the people around you — the ones who watched you break and build again.

And when it’s real,

They notice.

They soften.

They root for you, quietly.

After that, Eli didn’t see Amina that day.

Not because something was wrong — just life happening. Assignments. Group presentations. Fatigue.

But the strange thing was… he didn’t feel lost without her.

She was still there — just not there.

And that was enough for now.

He caught Mark outside the cafeteria — headphones in, scrolling through something. Eli tapped his shoulder.

“You alive?”

“Barely,” Mark mumbled. “Midterm season is a scam.”

They sat on the stone ledge near the courtyard — the same spot they used to crash on after late classes.

“You and Amina still good?” Mark asked, casually.

“Yeah,” Eli said.

“Cool. Means one of us is winning.”

Eli tilted his head. “That sounds loaded.”

Mark shrugged.

“You ever get tired of being the second option?”

Eli blinked. That wasn’t like him.

“What are you talking about?”

Mark gave a tight laugh, picking at the edge of his backpack strap.

“There was this girl. Dani. We talked for months. She laughed at all my dumb jokes. Even called me her ‘safe space’ once.” He paused. “Then she got back with her ex.”

Eli didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there.

“I didn’t even know I liked her that much,” Mark continued. “Not until she left. Funny how clarity always shows up late.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… I don’t know. Trying not to be bitter about watching people get the things I almost had.”

Eli bumped his shoulder gently. “You’re not a second option, Mark. She just couldn’t see it.”

Mark gave a half-smile. “You sound like Ruth.”

Later that evening, Eli passed by the library and spotted Ruth sitting alone near the window, typing something furiously. He almost walked past — but something about her posture made him stop.

“What are you writing?”

“An email,” she said. “And then deleting it.”

Eli sat.

“Old flame?”

“Old mess,” Ruth replied. “Texted me last week. Said he’s in town. Asked if I wanted to meet up.”

Eli raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I almost said yes. But then I remembered how quiet I became trying to love him.”

Eli winced. “Damn.”

She looked out the window, arms folded.

“People always think I’ve got it all figured out. But the truth is, I’m just better at hiding my bruises.”

Eli gave her a soft look.

“You don’t have to hide them with me.”

She smiled — the tired kind.

“I know.”

That night, Amina sent a photo.

A sky full of stars. One of those rare clear nights where even the silence seemed holy.

“Felt like something you’d stare at.”

Eli replied:

“Not the same without you beside me.”

Some people are healing.

Some are hiding.

Some are just holding on.

But everyone’s carrying something.

And sometimes, knowing that…

Is what makes love feel even more sacred.

Mark didn’t say much in class that week.

He still cracked a few jokes.

Still showed up late with coffee.

Still posted memes on his status.

But Eli noticed the pause between his laughs — like someone pressing “play” again after buffering too long.

“You ever feel like you’re everyone’s side character?” Mark asked one afternoon.

Eli gave him a look. “You’re literally talking to the main character right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Eli said. “You’re not in the background, Mark. Maybe just… waiting for your story to start.”

Mark smiled faintly. “I hope it’s worth the wait.”

Ruth, meanwhile, deleted the email.

She didn’t send it.

But she did something else:

She journaled. For the first time in months.

"I’ve spent so long being everyone’s anchor that I forgot what it feels like to float."

Later that night, she watched an old couple walk past campus, holding hands, whispering something only they understood.

And she didn’t feel sad.

Just… hopeful.

Amina’s sister called around 11 PM.

Eli only heard her voice faintly through the phone, but it made him curious.

“He sounds quiet,” she said.

“He is,” Amina replied. “But he listens like it matters.”

“Good,” her sister said. “You need someone who hears the things you don’t say.”

Amina smiled — soft, unseen.

“I think I found him.”

And then… someone small.

The guy behind the café counter, who always gave Eli an extra sugar packet without asking. He watched the two of them leave that day — hand in hand.

He smiled.

Not because he knew their story.

But because they looked like people who had one.

There’s more than one kind of love.

The kind you wait for.

The kind you walk away from.

The kind that stays.

The kind that almost was.

And even the people in the background…

Are living stories too.