Chapter 3: The Boy with November Eyes
Yuna didn’t believe in love at first sight.
But something about him felt familiar — like a song you didn’t know the words to, but somehow still remembered.
She tried to focus on her journal, but her heart was no longer listening.
Alec noticed her too.
Not in the way most boys looked — but like he saw her.
Noticed the pen in her hand.
The sadness hiding behind her smile.
The way she sat with her back straight, but her eyes heavy.
He didn’t sit too close.
Didn’t say anything clever.
But when their eyes met again, he smiled — just enough to say,
“Hey… I see you.”
Yuna blushed.
She looked away.
But she felt… warm.
---
It was the third time she visited Paper Trails that he spoke.
She was reading a poetry book.
Alec walked by, paused, and said gently,
“That one’s my favorite.”
Yuna looked up.
His voice was soft. Confident. Calming.
She gave a shy smile. “Really? I just picked it randomly.”
Alec sat across from her, not without asking,
“Mind if I join you?”
She shook her head.
For the next hour, they talked about books, favorite places, music, little things.
Nothing too deep. Nothing too personal.
But Yuna found herself laughing — like real, eyes-crinkling, stomach-hurting laughing.
Something she hadn’t done in so long.
Before leaving, he asked,
“You’re not from here, are you?”
She shook her head. “Just... exploring.”
He smiled, tilting his head slightly.
“Me too.”
---
That night, Yuna wrote in her journal:
> “He didn’t ask why I was here.
He didn’t ask where I was from.
He just let me be…
and still wanted to stay.”
Chapter 4: Mountains, Mangoes & Midnight Talks
Shimara had a rhythm — slow mornings, lazy afternoons, and sky-full evenings.
Yuna and Alec were falling into their own quiet rhythm too.
It wasn’t a love story yet.
It was just two people… healing in each other’s presence.
Some days, they sat together in silence.
Some days, they talked about everything — songs, broken dreams, favorite smells, childhood memories.
Alec never pushed.
He never asked why her eyes sometimes got teary when no one said anything sad.
He never asked who hurt her.
He just… stayed.
One day, they planned a short hike up a nearby hill to watch the sunset.
It wasn’t far, but it felt like the kind of place where new memories could be born.
Alec brought homemade mango slices wrapped in foil.
Yuna brought her journal and two cups from the café.
As they reached the top, the sky looked like melted gold.
They sat under a tree, sharing fruit, their fingers sticky with sweetness and laughter.
> “Why did you leave home?” Alec asked gently, not looking at her.
Yuna paused. Then whispered,
“I felt invisible. Like I was screaming and no one even looked up.”
Alec didn’t say sorry.
He didn’t give advice.
He just nodded, then softly said,
“Sometimes… you have to leave to become visible to yourself again.”
Yuna looked at him, a tear sliding down without warning.
He smiled and reached into his pocket — pulling out a tiny paper crane.
“Whenever you feel small,” he said, “remember this. Even paper can fly, if you fold it right.”
Her heart melted.
---
That night, Yuna couldn't sleep.
She looked at the little paper bird on her table… and her heart whispered something it hadn’t dared in years:
> “Maybe… I’m not unlovable.
Maybe someone out there sees me the way I’ve always wanted to be seen.”
Maybe… that someone was Alec.
She didn’t know if he’d come again.
But deep down, her heart whispered —
He will.
And he did.
Again.
And again.
And every time, her soul stitched itself back together a little more.
