Chapter Twenty-Two: Showing Up

This is Mira’s story — part fiction, part reflection, wholly honest.
(Each chapter will end with a note from her writing, signed as your trusted friend.)

Mira’s Story: Showing Up
Showing up meanings showing up in all the ways, not only when it’s soft, not only when it’s pretty, not only when it feels good

Mira didn’t have anywhere to be.

A rare Saturday with no plans, no obligations. Pepper was still at her sleepover, and the apartment was deliciously quiet.

She woke slowly, barely aware of the sunlight stretching across her bedroom wall, of the space where Rowan had been.

She could still smell him.

Sex and skin. That faint trace of laundry detergent. And something else, something distinctly him. Warmth and cedar and sunshine. The kind of scent that lingered on her sheets, in her hair, between her thighs.

Her body still hummed from the night before. Tender, satisfied, and just a little sore in the best way. She stretched, lazily, and remembered the way he reached for her in the dark. Again. And again.

Their bodies had found each other like a tide returning to the shore, pulling back, surging forward, always coming home.

And in between, there were those moments. His hand tracing her hip under the sheets. Her mouth finding the hollow of his throat. His quiet gasp when she rolled on top of him in the early hours, murmuring something soft and unfiltered.

By the time he’d left, slowly, reluctantly, with long, lingering kisses, he’d pressed his forehead to hers and said, “I don’t want to go.”

She had whispered, “Then don’t.”

But he had to meet his dad. She’d nodded, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He kissed her one last time, slow and deep and full of something more than just want.

“Text me when you know anything. Let me know what you need? If I can help in any way?” she’d asked, fingers grazing his wrist.

He nodded. Kissed her temple. Said, “Of course.”

She moved slowly through her morning, the soft sweater sliding off one shoulder, hair pulled up messily. She lit her candle on the windowsill. Sipped her tea with both hands.

And then she sat. Just… sat.

Letting the night rise again in memory.

The feel of Rowan’s breath against her neck.

The way he looked at her, not just like she was beautiful, but like she was known.

The tremble in his voice when he said, “Tell me what you need.”

She curled her legs up on the couch, one hand resting lightly over her chest.

It mattered.

Not just the way he touched her, but the way he saw her.

She didn’t feel like she had to question the softness she’d allowed herself to fall into.

Feeling the pull, she got up, padded into the kitchen, heart too full for words, and grabbed her tarot deck.

She shuffled as she walked back to the couch. Just as she sat, The Lovers landed in her lap.

At first, she read it the way she always had: as alignment, as choice, as a mirror to your values. The crossroads of what is and what you’re ready to claim.

But then her breath caught.

Because last night wasn’t just about attraction.

It was about being seen. About being met.

There had been tenderness in the way he touched her, but even more in the way he waited.

And she realized…

This wasn’t about deciding whether to leap.

It was about acknowledging that she already had.

She opened her journal. Scribbled fragments.

One line stood out:
“Maybe this is what safe feels like before you call it home.”

She exhaled.

Slow and full.

After all that warmth, all that closeness, she half expected the silence to stretch. For the spell to break. For the old pattern to return: be desired, then dismissed.

The apartment was still warm with the echo of last night, but a small voice stirred in her chest. A flicker of old patterns, gently knocking

Hours went by, and she found herself looking at the clock. Thinking she should have heard from Rowan by now.

She found herself checking her phone again and again, until she caught herself. Then she messaged him once. Simple. Warm.

Mira: “Thinking of you and your dad. Let me know how it’s going when you can.”

No response.

And this time, she didn’t wait in silence.

She didn’t pace the apartment or write stories in her head.

She grabbed her keys.

Not out of anxiety, but instinct. A steady pull in her gut.

She knew, Rowan wasn’t shutting her out. He was shutting down.

If he didn’t know how to ask for her, she’d remind him he could.

---

The house was quiet when she pulled up. Not lifeless, just still.

She found Rowan in the garage, standing over a piece of wood he wasn’t shaping. Just holding.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. Just tired.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t texted. Didn’t demand an explanation.

She just stepped closer.

“I didn’t know how to let you in when I wasn’t okay,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “You just have to unlock the door.”

He looked at her then, really looked. And he felt the emotions of the day bubble up within him.

Up and up, until he felt his eyes fill with tears.

Then he spoke.

His voice was low, almost matter-of-fact. “It’s cancer.”

She nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

He ran a hand down his face. “I knew it was coming. I think I knew. But hearing it…”

He trailed off.

She reached for his hand. He let her take it.

“I’m not good at this part,” he admitted. “The talking part.”

He ran his eyes over her face, exhaling slowly.

“My mom was the talker,” he said. “She’d narrate the whole damn day. My dad… not so much. After she died, he just kind of… disappeared into himself. I was sixteen. It didn’t feel like I could ask for anything. So I didn’t.”

He looked down, his thumb running along the edge of the wood he still hadn’t put down.

“I guess that stuck. That idea that if you needed something, you were asking too much.”

Mira didn’t speak. Just listened. Still.

“So yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m not good at this part. But I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to be good at it, yet” she said. “You just have to keep trying and, Rowan, let yourself be held.”

His eyes closed for a beat. Then opened again. “That’s the hardest thing, letting someone hold me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you’re not alone.”

He leaned into her. Not broken. Not collapsing. Just… real. And she wrapped her arms around him. No fixing. No rescue. Just presence.

His breath hitched once against her collarbone. Not a sob. Just surrender.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to make a joke, or wave it off. He just leaned it, his forehead resting against hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

---

Letters from The Clever Confidante: “Showing Up in the Dark“
What love really means when the room goes quiet

Not All Intimacy Is Physical
There’s a softness that comes after connection, the kind that lingers in the air and under your skin.
But sometimes, after the warmth, after the exhale, comes something else: the ache of vulnerability.
Because intimacy doesn’t always lead to certainty.
Sometimes it opens a door to the parts of us still holding fear.
Will they stay?
Was that too much?
Can I be held in the quiet, not just the heat?

The Hardest Thing Is Letting Yourself Be Held
We are taught to brace. To perform. To stay composed.
But the truest moments in love don’t ask for any of that.
They ask us to let someone in, even when we don’t have the words.
Even when the news is bad.
Even when we’re scared.

This Is What It Means to Be Chosen
Real love doesn’t flinch in the dark.
It shows up.
It sits quietly beside the ache.
It says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
And it means it.

If You’ve Ever Wondered What Love Looks Like When It’s Quiet
Let this be your reminder:
It looks like the kettle on the stove.
The hand that reaches without asking.
The presence that doesn’t try to fix, only hold.

Because sometimes, love is just not leaving.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤

If you’ve ever carried someone’s pain in silence, or wished someone had done the same for you, this chapter is for you.
(Leave it in the comments, or just whisper it to the version of you that needed to be heard back then.)

☁️ New here? You can start Mira’s Story from the beginning with Chapter Zero.

➡️✨ Continue Mira’s Story with Chapter Twenty-Three: Embers

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