mrnobodywrites
Some stories begin with a bang. A war. A prophecy. A blade through the chest.
This one begins in a quiet room, with beige walls and the soft ticking of clocks-where feelings weigh heavy and words fall like raindrops on glass.
Ziva had been coming here for three years. Always on time. Always with that small, stitched-on smile, like a patch covering something deeper. Sunshine, her therapist called her. A girl who brought warmth to cold spaces, even when her own heart sometimes felt like winter.
Then one Thursday, a new name appeared on the appointment list.
Rian.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak much. He simply sat there-a tall shadow in the corner, holding silence like a shield. But the therapist, ever intuitive, saw something in their mirrored wounds-fractures shaped by different stories, but echoing the same ache.
So the room shifted. The chairs were drawn closer. The space between them became a place of shared breath, shared silence.
And the healing began-not with answers, but with questions. With glances. With the strange, slow magic of two people carrying storm clouds in different skies... learning how to weather them together.
RIAN: 28 years old
ZIVA: 26 years old