The days blurred.
Each morning I woke with a dull ache in my chest, and each night I fell asleep wondering if I was strong enough for what lay ahead.
The thought of seeing Daniel again filled me with equal parts dread and longing.
This wasn't just about confronting him.
It was about confronting myself… my hopes, my fears, and the last pieces of love I hadn't yet let go.
Saraph didn't push me. She gave me space to breathe, to process.
But I knew the plan was in motion. She was watching, listening, gathering details like puzzle pieces.
And when the time was right, she'd tell me, "Now."
I kept replaying the photos in my mind, those stolen moments of Daniel with the other girl.
Her smile pressed against his cheek, his hand resting on the small of her back.
Poses too familiar to ignore. Too intimate to excuse.
Yet, somehow, part of me still hoped it was all a mistake. That he'd explain it away, and I'd believe him.
That there'd be some reason, some misunderstood scenario, that would spare me from heartbreak.
But deep down, I knew better.
I was just holding on to a version of Daniel that didn't exist anymore.
One evening, as rain tapped gently on the windowpanes, I sat alone on my bed with a notebook open in front of me.
I wrote nothing structured, nothing poetic, just thoughts spilling like rain.
"How did we get here?"
"Was I not enough?"
"When did the love start fading?"
"Was it me, or was it always him?"
Writing helped. A little. But it didn't ease the knot in my stomach. It didn't make the waiting any easier.
Saraph stopped by later that night, her arms full of snacks and a determined expression on her face.
"We're not wallowing," she declared, tossing a blanket over my shoulders. "Tonight, we take care of your heart."
She put on a silly movie, the kind we used to love in first year.
She made popcorn, braided my hair, and talked about everything except Daniel.
And somehow, it worked. Her presence steadied me.
"You're strong, Nuella," she said quietly as the credits rolled.
"Whatever happens when you see him, remember that. You're not walking in there broken. You're walking in there with clarity."
I looked at her. My anchor. My mirror.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
She nodded. "I know. But fear means you still care. And caring doesn't make you weak, it makes you human."
That night, I didn't cry. I didn't overthink. I just breathed. In and out. Again and again.
The storm hadn't hit yet, but I could feel it approaching.
And when it did, I knew I'd be ready not because I wanted the truth, but because I needed it.