I didn’t sleep that night.

Her words played over and over in my head like a broken record.

“You broke everything… and I don’t forgive you. But I still love you.”

She could’ve killed me. I felt the weight of her sword only inches away from my throat.

And instead… she walked away.

She chose not to end me.

And that hurts more than the blade ever could.

The next morning, I stood outside her apartment for over an hour.

I didn’t knock. I didn’t call. I just stood there, hoping for a sign — for a glimpse of her face behind the curtain, for a door to open, for anything.

Nothing.

She needed space.

She had every right to hate me. I lied to her.

I let her fall in love with someone I pretended to be.

Or maybe… someone I wished I could be.

I wasn’t human. That truth sat like poison between us.

But the way she looked at me before leaving — it wasn’t just anger.

There was confusion. Sadness. Regret.

And love.

It wasn’t gone.

Just buried.

I had to prove I was still worth it.

Not with words. Not with promises. But with something real.

So I waited.

I didn’t chase her when she ignored my texts.

I didn’t show up at her job or at practice, even though I wanted to.

Instead, I left little things where I knew she’d find them.

Her favorite drink on the bench where we used to sit after her performances.

A small drawing I made of us — hidden inside her mailbox.

A playlist, slipped into her bag, with a title that said everything I couldn’t, "I'm still me."

Days passed. Then a week.

And finally, one night after rehearsal, I saw her again.

She was sitting alone near the river, the wind tugging at her hair. Her sword wasn’t with her this time.

I stood a few steps behind, my hands in my pockets, my heart beating like a drum inside my chest.

"You came."

I said softly.

She didn’t turn around.

"I didn’t come for you."

"I know."

I walked closer, but slowly, careful not to scare her.

"But I hoped you’d let me sit with you anyway."

Silence.

Then, a quiet, almost reluctant nod.

I sat beside her. Not too close. Just enough.

The river was calm. The moonlight danced on the surface.

And we sat like that for a while — no fighting, no words. Just… being.

Finally, she spoke.

"I listened to the playlist." s

he said. Her voice was small, tired.

"You picked our song."

"I never stopped listening to it."

I whispered.

She looked at me then. Really looked. Her eyes were softer than before, but still guarded.

Like she’d built a wall around her heart — and maybe I didn’t deserve to break it down. Not yet.

"You still lied to me."

she said.

"I know."

"You’re still dangerous."

"I know that too."

"And you’re still…"

She hesitated.

"Still a demon."

I nodded slowly.

"But I’m still yours. If you want me to be."

Tears welled in her eyes again — like they always did — but refused to fall.

She blinked them away, pressing her lips into a thin line.

"You don’t get to just say that and expect everything to be okay."

"I don’t."

I said.

"I’m not asking for everything. Just… something. A chance."

She looked away again, eyes on the water.

"I don’t trust you."

she admitted.

"I’ll earn it back. Even if it takes forever."

More silence.

But this time, she didn’t move away when I reached out and gently touched her hand.

She didn’t pull back. She didn’t smile either — but she didn’t let go.

And that was enough.

We sat there until the stars took over the sky. Two people. One broken past. One impossible future.

She still didn’t forgive me.

But she let me stay.

And sometimes, love doesn’t begin with fireworks.

Sometimes, it begins with forgiveness that hasn’t come yet — and the quiet decision to wait for it anyways.