Izzy & Noah ✔️

Twenty-Seven: Revisiting the Old Room

I quicken my pace toward the taxi, my steps almost as if something invisible is pushing me forward. The cold air slices through me, but I barely feel it; my mind is a blur, consumed by everything I'm trying to outrun.

I yank open the door and collapse into the seat, my body aching from the weight of the world. Without thinking, I curl into Noah's side.

The car hums to life, the sound of the engine filling the space between us. But it's not just any noise. It's a soft, steady rhythm that matches the beat of my heart, as if the world itself is trying to calm me.

Noah's arm wraps around me, pulling me closer. His touch is gentle, instinctive, as though he's holding me together without asking why, without needing to. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't ask if I'm okay, if I need anything. He simply holds me.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it's enough.

Noah.

His presence is the anchor I never knew I needed. No promises, no explanations—just this unspoken understanding, this quiet solace between us.

The car moves through the streets, the night passing by like a blur. The silence is heavy, but not in the way it often is. It's a silence that wraps around us, comforting in its own way. It's a silence that speaks louder than words ever could—between us, there's no need for chatter, no need for distractions. We don't need to fill the air with meaningless noise.

It feels like we're two souls who've found a rhythm, a way of existing together that doesn't require anything more than this. The world outside is chaotic, but in this moment, Noah and I are in perfect sync—knowing when to speak, when to let the silence settle between us, and when simply being together is all that matters.

The weight of the past few days crashes over me, each wave more overwhelming than the last. The exhaustion wraps around me like a blanket, my body heavy, my mind hazy with everything that's happened.

The flight home. The cemetery. The flood of questions I can't even begin to ask.

Big things. Things that hurt. Things I don't know how to deal with.

And then there's us—Noah and me. Where do we even stand? What are we, really?

I don't know. And I'm scared to ask.

We're a couple, but not quite. We're something more than friends but less than certainty. It's messy and undefined, and maybe that's okay.

But the clock is ticking, and I feel the urgency of time slipping away. Time we don't have.

My conscience stings, guilt bubbling under the surface. I can't shake the feeling that I'm not strong enough for this—for him. I want to be there for Noah, to care for him, to give him everything he needs. But how do I do that while knowing I'll have to watch him go?

I snuggle closer into his warmth, pressing my face against his chest.

The car slows and stops in front of my apartment building. As I look out the window, memories come flooding back, uninvited and relentless.

The fights between Mum and Dad.
The shouting.
The way the walls of this building held every argument, every slammed door, every tear.

And then there's my ex—his anger, his threats, the way he chipped away at my sense of safety and self.

I sigh heavily, the weight of those memories pressing down on me. I wish I could rewrite them, replace the darkness with something bright, something warm.

This flat should have been a sanctuary, a place where the best memories were made, where I could walk through the door with a smile and feel love surrounding me. But life doesn't always give us those choices.