That night, after the picnic and all the laughter faded into memories, Clara found herself unable to sleep. The moon hung low and golden, casting a soft glow through her window. Her thoughts were full of Emmanuel—his smile, his touch, his promise.
A quiet knock on the door stirred her heart.
She tiptoed outside, barefoot and glowing in the moonlight, and there he was—Emmanuel, standing beneath the mango tree where fireflies danced like tiny spirits of joy.
"I couldn't sleep," he said.
"Me neither," Clara whispered.
They didn't say much after that. He held out his hand, and she took it. Together they walked down the familiar path to the old wooden bench near the stream—the one Clara used to visit when her heart was heavy. Tonight, though, it was different. Tonight, her heart was full.
They sat close, wrapped in a comfortable silence, the stars above them whispering old love songs. The wind tugged at Clara's hair, and Emmanuel gently tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer.
"I don't know what tomorrow brings," Clara murmured, her voice like a fragile poem, "but this… this feels like magic."
Emmanuel turned to her, his voice deep and steady. "You are the magic, Clara. You've been through storms, and you still bloom. I want to be the calm after your rain."
Her eyes welled with tears—not from sadness, but from being held so gently in a world that had once bruised her.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, she let go of the fear.
And right there, under the hush of moonlight and stars that blinked like blessings from the heavens, Clara fell—not just in love, but into peace.