Life, as it always does, moved forward. But this time, Cean wasn't trying to catch up.
She had found herself in the rhythm of purpose. Cean was now leading a youth civic alliance in her municipality. Her days were a whirlwind of consultations, drafting press releases, and late nights spent at her small desk with ink-stained fingers. She wasn't always smiling. She wasn't always sure of what came next. But she was thriving in a way that felt real. Messy. Beautifully messy.
This was her own path, and she was walking it.
Then came Zeke.
Cean first met him during a municipal youth planning workshop. She was pinning up session schedules on a corkboard when someone beside her said, "You're missing a date." She glanced over, slightly flustered, to find a tall guy holding a printout, his ID badge swinging from a lanyard labeled MSU Architecture Society. His tone wasn't condescending—just observant.
"Oh," she said, taking the paper. "Thanks…?"
"Zeke," he offered with a small smile. "Volunteer. Mostly here for free snacks."
Cean smirked. "Well, the coffee's terrible, but the peanuts are alright."
That was it. Just a fleeting first encounter.
But then he kept showing up.
He didn't hover or push into her circle. Instead, he arrived early to arrange chairs, tested microphones before programs started, and helped usher high school students into their breakout rooms. He was the kind of volunteer who didn't wait to be asked—he noticed what needed to be done and quietly did it.
Over the next few weeks, Cean started expecting him without realizing it. She'd walk into the venue and find Zeke already there, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand, nodding politely at the other staff. He wasn't trying to stand out, and maybe that's why he did.
He wasn't like Yuan—didn't challenge her mid-sentence, didn't read her mind before she spoke. Zeke asked questions. Listened. Responded thoughtfully.
Once, during a lull between sessions, they ended up on the steps outside the venue, sipping cheap juice in plastic cups.
"You always this involved?" Zeke asked.
"Not always," Cean replied. "But lately, I feel like if I don't help make things better, I'll regret it."
Zeke nodded. "Same. Architecture's not just buildings. It's the spaces people live in. I want to make those kinder."
The way he said it—calmly, without trying to sound profound—lingered with her.
People around them started noticing. Yesha joked once, "You and that MSU boy—very *slow burn indie film* vibe." Cean rolled her eyes. Mia, less subtle, said, "If you don't like him, stop smiling every time he texts."
Still, Cean insisted, "We're just working well together."
And that was true. Mostly.
Until one night, after a long community consultation, Zeke offered to walk her home. The streets were quiet, lit by scattered lamps and the occasional firefly. They didn't talk much—but the silence wasn't awkward. It was… gentle.
As they reached her gate, Zeke paused and said, "You remind me of early mornings."
Cean tilted her head. "What?"
"Quiet. Thoughtful. Hard to let go of."
She didn't know what to say. So she smiled.
Later that night, curled up by her window with her notebook, Cean wrote:
"There's a boy who doesn't make my heart race—
but he makes it rest.
I wonder if this is how healing feels."
'_'