THIS IS WHAT MARMALADE TASTES LIKE

Chapter 3: You Say Nothing, But I Hear Everything

Rayyan’s POV

It’s been five days since that rooftop night.

Since her skin on mine burned memories into my bones.

Since I whispered I wasn’t leaving—yet did anyway.

Since she clutched the blanket to her chest and watched me disappear down the stairwell, eyes screaming stay louder than her mouth ever could.

I’ve replayed it on loop.

That moment.

The silence.

The ache.

Aira hasn’t spoken to me since.

Not because she’s mad—I think—but because that’s how we are. We ruin moments with distance. Fill the air with unsaid things. Push when we should pull.

And I’ve always been the one to run.

But now I’m exhausted from sprinting from the truth.

Because if I’m honest… I haven’t been sleeping.

Not really.

Not since her breath hitched under me, not since her fingers traced the line of my jaw like it was familiar.

I’ve been waking up in a sweat with her name stuck in my throat like a confession I’m too afraid to say out loud.

Today, I see her again.

Not because we planned it.

But because fate likes to test my limits.

She walked into the campus studio in a denim jacket two sizes too big, hair half-tied like she didn’t care—like she wasn’t still tangled up in my sheets in my mind.

She doesn’t look at me.

Not even once.

Not even when we’re seated at the same table for project review.

“Group A,” the lecturer says, not realizing he’s sentencing me to death by silence, “you’ll be presenting next week.”

Her eyes flicker at the screen. Mine flickered to her.

I wonder if she still thinks about it too.

That night, I sat alone in my car in the parking lot. Engine off. Music on.

Diverseddie’s “you know what i mean” spills through the stereo—slow, melancholic, haunting.

“I don't say it much, but you know what I mean…”

I close my eyes.

Think of her lips trembling against mine.

The way she almost said I want this, but swallowed it with a breath instead.

Why are we like this?

Why can’t we say it out loud?

It’s late. Too late to call her.

But I text anyway.

Me: Are you still up?

No reply.

I don’t blame her.

Me (again): Can we talk? Just for a minute.

Still nothing.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and slam my head back against the headrest.

I can’t stop hearing her laugh from that night.

Not the soft, girly giggle. The real one—the kind she tried to hide behind her hand when I said something stupid.

The one that made my heart stutter like a skipping beat.

Later that night…

My phone buzzes.

Aira: I’m on the rooftop.

Three words. That’s all.

But I don’t think I’ve ever driven that fast in my life.

She’s standing where she stood five days ago.

Same hoodie. Same stars. Different weights in the air.

She doesn’t look surprised to see me.

Just… tired. Like she’s been carrying too much without saying a word.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says, her voice barely above the wind.

“I didn’t think you’d wait.”

We stand in silence for a while.

Not awkward. Just heavy.

Finally, I speak.

“That night… I wasn’t supposed to let it happen. I thought I’d hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I left.”

“You always do.”

That one stings more than I expected.

She looks away, toward the railing.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” she whispers. “Us. That. Everything.”

I take a step closer.

“It meant everything to me.”

Aira’s eyes soften. Then narrow.

“Then why didn’t you say it?”

I laugh—but it’s not funny. “Because I’m a coward.”

She looks down. “And I’m tired of guessing how you feel.”

I stepped in again, closer this time.

No more guessing.

I take her hand.

“I don’t say it much,” I whisper, “but you know what I mean.”

A tear slips down her cheek—but she doesn’t let go.

She doesn’t pull away.

She leans into me like it’s the only truth she has left.

And when I wrap my arms around her, I feel it.

The apology. The promise. The ache. All of it wrapped up in silence.

And she lets it be enough—for now.

She lets her head rest on my chest, and I can feel her heart — steady, strong, louder than her voice has ever been with me.

I want to tell her that I've missed her every second since that night.

I want to say I see her in everything — in the space between songs, in my coffee that tastes empty now, in every sentence I type that sounds a little dull without her sarcasm beside it.

I want to say her silence kills me more than her anger ever could.

But I don’t say any of it.

Instead, I breathe her in.

Her lavender shampoo. The way her fingers hook slightly at the hem of my hoodie like she’s scared I’ll leave again.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” I murmur, words brushing her forehead.

She doesn’t reply.

But she doesn’t let go either.

The sky above is starless, just like the last time. But this time, I feel something different settle in my chest — not guilt, not regret.

Something softer. Something like hope.

She pulls back just slightly, enough to look at me.

And then — in the quietest voice, barely louder than the wind — she asks, “Do you think we’re a mistake?”

I freeze.

Because I’ve asked myself the same thing a hundred times.

In my bed at 3 a.m.

In the middle of crowded rooms where she wasn’t.

On the edge of voicemails, I never left.

And the truth is…

“We’re not a mistake,” I say, and for once, it’s clear. “We’re just scared.”

She nods. Like she already knew. Like she just needed me to say it.

We don’t kiss.

We don’t fall back into chaos.

We just stand there.

Two people who’ve broken up each other in small, invisible ways, still choosing to stay.

And for the first time in a long time, I let the silence speak for me.

Because she knows.

She always knows.

You know what I mean.

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Aira’s POV

The night air is cool, but not cold. Still, I feel every inch of warmth where our bodies touch.

Rayyan’s heartbeat is steady against my cheek. And yet, mine? It’s chaotic. Disobedient.

I’m not even sure what I’m doing here — in his hoodie, pressed against him, my fingers curled into the fabric like some desperate fool who doesn’t know how to let go.

But maybe I am that fool.

Maybe I never stopped being one of the moment he kissed me on the rooftop weeks ago — the night the world fell away and all that remained was his breath on my neck and the echo of his name in my moans.

The night I swore I wouldn’t let him break me again… and yet, here I am. Unraveling in his arms, silently, again.

I close my eyes.

The street below is quiet. No cars. No noise. Just the soft hum of the city breathing while we hide up here like two secrets that don’t want to be found.

I wonder if he knows I still wear the necklace he gave me — the one he never even called a gift, just quietly left in my bag after finals last semester.

I wonder if he knows I check his Spotify late at night — just to see if he’s listening to sad songs again. Just to see if I’m still haunting him like he is me.

He murmurs something. I barely catch it, but I feel it.

“I’m not going anywhere this time.”

And it scares me.

Because people don’t say that unless they’ve thought about leaving.

But I don’t say anything.

Not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t trust myself not to fall apart in the process.

Instead, I just stay.

Wrapped in the scent of cinnamon and cedarwood.

In the only arms that have ever felt like home and heartbreak all at once.

I pull back after a while. Just enough to look at him. His brows are furrowed, like he’s waiting for something. A sign. A slap. A confession.

Instead, I ask the one question I’ve buried deep — the one I swore I’d never voice.

“Do you think we’re a mistake?”

His eyes widen — not from surprise, but from recognition. He’s asked himself that too. I know it. The silence between us has always been too loud to ignore.

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t comfort.

He just tells the truth.

“We’re not a mistake. We’re just scared.”

My throat tightens.

Because isn’t that the cruelest kind of truth? That we could be something real, something right… but fear keeps us circling like satellites around a planet we never land on.

I want to ask: Then what are we?

But instead, I say nothing.

Because tonight is not about answers.

Tonight is about knowing without needing to explain.

Tonight is about the way he looks at me like I still matter.

Like the space I tried to build between us has always been paper-thin.

He lets me stay in the silence.

And that’s the thing about Rayyan.

He never forces the words out of me.

He waits until they’re ready to fall.

So I do what I always do when I can’t speak — I act.

I reach for his hand in the dark.

Find his fingers and thread mine between them.

Slow. Soft. Certain.

And even though I don’t say anything, I know he hears me.

Because the grip he returns says it all.

I don’t know when I stopped feeling the night air.

Maybe it was somewhere between the warmth of his hoodie and the warmth of his skin underneath.

Maybe it was the way his breath matched mine—quiet, synced, like we were breathing in tandem, even if the timing of our hearts had always been offbeat.

Time doesn’t feel real when I’m around him.

Up here, on the rooftop where the world goes quiet and everything outside of this doesn’t exist—it’s easy to pretend. Easy to pretend we’re not complicated. That we’re not stitched together by broken promises and stitched again by hope.

His hoodie is far too big for me, and yet it fits perfectly. Just like him—always too much, too intense, and still somehow the only thing that’s ever felt like it belonged.

I don’t dare look at him.

Because I know if I do, I’ll say things I’ve sworn I wouldn’t.

I stare straight ahead. Past the edge. Into the lights. The late-night silence between us isn't empty. It's thick with everything we haven't said.

And when he shifts just slightly to get comfortable, his arm brushing against mine, I can feel it—that ripple under my skin. That same current from the rooftop. The memory of his lips on my neck. His voice whispering my name like a secret prayer he didn’t want the world to hear.

That night wrecked me.

And healed me.

And then wrecked me again.

Because he never followed up. Never chased after the "what now." Never gave me closure.

But the stupidest part?

Neither did I.

Because even though I’ve been aching every night since, I kept pretending.

Pretending I didn’t miss the way he says my name when no one’s around.

Pretending I didn’t watch his shadow from my dorm window as he walked away that morning.

Pretending he doesn’t make every other boy I meet feel like filler in a song I no longer want to play.

And tonight?

Tonight is a cruel kind of mercy.

To be here again.

With him.

In the silence that knows all our sins but chooses to let us breathe anyway.

I grip the edge of the hoodie sleeves tighter around my hands.

I’ve always hidden in layers.

Sweaters. Words. Sarcasm. Distance.

But nothing hides me from him.

Because Rayyan sees through me.

Even when I lie.

Even when I smile too wide and laugh too loud.

He shifts again and wraps his arm around my waist. A soft, almost subconscious act—but it jolts something inside me. A memory. A spark. A wound reopens and stitches itself closed again all at once.

I don’t stop him.

I lean into it.

Let myself feel the weight of his presence and the lightness of being known.

And then his voice, low and raspy, breaks through the stillness like a wave crashing over quiet shorelines.

“I want to come home now… if you’ll let me.”

My breath catches.

Not because of the words. But because of the way he says them.

Like home means something more than a place.

Like home is a person.

Like home is… me.

I don’t turn to face him.

I don’t even move.

I just let the words settle between us like dust.

He’s waiting.

I can feel it in the way his body stills.

But instead of speaking, I reached for his hand.

Find it in the dark.

Thread my fingers through his with a familiarity that’s both comforting and terrifying.

And it’s that silence again. The one that says more than words ever could.

I want to scream, “Yes. I’ve been waiting. Come home. Stay.”

But I don’t.

I let my hand say it instead.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles in response.

And maybe I imagined it, but I swear I hear him exhale like he’s been holding that breath for months.

We sit like that for what feels like forever.

No promises.

No demands.

Just us.

Two broken compasses trying to find true north in each other.

I let my eyes close.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I don’t feel alone.

I don’t feel scared.

I don’t feel like I’m pretending.

Because sometimes, you don’t need to be told you’re loved.

Sometimes, you just know.

You just feel it in the way their hand doesn’t let go.

And tonight, that’s enough.

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“I didn't need a confession. I needed you to stay.”

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