Staying turned out to be harder than leaving.
Annalise learned that on the third morning after the train left without her.
The initial rush of certainty—the relief, the adrenaline, the fragile pride of having made a choice—had begun to fade. In its place came something heavier. Quieter. Less dramatic, but far more demanding.
Routine.
She woke up in her childhood bedroom, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling she remembered from being twelve, and felt a wave of panic press against her ribs. Not because she regretted staying—but because staying meant there was no dramatic escape waiting at the end of the day.
No packed bag.
No ticket.
No clean ending.
Just days that asked her to show up.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her face, listening to the house breathe around her. Pipes creaked. A car passed outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
Life continuing.
Downstairs, the kettle whistled. Her mother was already awake.
Annalise lingered on the edge of the bed longer than necessary, steadying herself.
You chose this, she reminded herself.
And for the first time, she understood how much courage that actually required.
Liam learned it too.
He stood in the workshop that morning, hands resting on a half-finished table, staring at the grain of the wood without really seeing it. He'd slept badly—too many thoughts, too many what-ifs knocking against his mind.
Staying meant hope.
And hope was dangerous.
Not because he didn't want it—but because he knew how much it could cost if it slipped through his fingers again.
He'd seen Annalise choose before.
He'd also seen her run.
He trusted her decision. He just wasn't sure yet if he trusted the future.
The bell above the shop door rang.
He looked up instinctively.
It wasn't her.
Disappointment flickered before he could stop it.
"Expecting someone?" Jonah asked, leaning against the doorway.
Liam scoffed. "You're early."
Jonah shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. You look like hell."
"Feeling's mutual."
Jonah's eyes narrowed slightly. "So. She stayed."
"Yes."
"And?"
Liam hesitated. "And now we learn how not to ruin it."
Jonah smiled faintly. "Good luck with that."
Annalise found herself standing outside the café later that afternoon, staring at the door like it might bite her.
She hadn't planned to come.
Her feet had just… brought her there.
The bell rang as she stepped inside, warmth wrapping around her instantly. The familiar smell of coffee, baked bread, and something sweet grounded her.
Liam looked up from behind the counter.
Their eyes met.
Something gentle passed between them—an unspoken acknowledgment that yesterday hadn't been a dream.
He smiled.
Not big. Not overwhelming.
Just steady.
Her shoulders relaxed without her realizing they'd been tense.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
She took a seat at the counter, fingers wrapping around the edge.
"How are you?" he asked.
She considered lying. Considered giving him the easy version.
Instead, she said, "Unsettled. But… okay."
He nodded. "That sounds about right."
He slid a mug toward her without asking. The way he remembered how she took her coffee—less sugar now than before—made her throat tighten.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
Then Annalise spoke again, words tumbling out before fear could edit them.
"I don't want you to think staying means I suddenly have everything figured out."
"I don't," he said calmly.
"I'm still scared."
"I know."
"I might pull back sometimes."
"I expect that."
She frowned slightly. "You're not making this difficult enough."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm not trying to win. I'm trying to stay."
The word echoed between them.
Stay.
She swallowed.
"Can we take this slow?" she asked. "Not because I don't want you—but because I want to do this right."
His gaze softened. "Slow sounds perfect."
The days that followed settled into something almost fragile.
They walked together in the evenings.
Shared meals when they could.
Sat side by side without always touching.
It was intimacy without possession. Presence without pressure.
And still—old habits crept in.
On the fifth day, Annalise caught herself rehearsing excuses in her head. Planning emotional exits that didn't yet exist.
If this gets too heavy, I'll just—
If he expects more, I can—
If I start to feel trapped—
She stopped herself mid-thought, chest tight.
"What are you doing?" she muttered aloud.
She was learning how to stay—but her instincts were still wired for escape.
That evening, she arrived late to meet Liam without texting.
Not intentionally.
Just… reflexively.
When she found him waiting near the river, hands shoved into his coat pockets, she saw the flicker of something cross his face.
Relief.
Then restraint.
"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I lost track of time."
"It's okay," he replied—but his voice carried a caution she recognized too well.
They walked in silence for a while.
Finally, Liam spoke.
"Can I say something without you feeling like I'm accusing you?"
She nodded. "Please."
"When you disappear without a word," he said carefully, "my brain fills in the gaps. I start preparing for goodbye—even when I don't want to."
Guilt washed over her.
"I didn't realize I was doing that," she admitted. "But I was."
He stopped walking.
"So let's call it what it is," he said. "Not betrayal. Not failure. Just… habit."
She looked at him, eyes glossy. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I know," he said gently. "But wanting isn't the same as learning."
The truth of it settled deep.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
"I can see that," he replied. "Just don't try alone."
That night, Annalise sat on the floor of her room, back against the bed, phone resting in her lap.
She typed a message.
I'm here. I'm not going anywhere tonight. Just wanted you to know.
Her finger hovered over send.
Fear whispered that it made her vulnerable.
She pressed send anyway.
The reply came seconds later.
Thank you for telling me.
She closed her eyes.
Maybe staying wasn't about grand gestures.
Maybe it was about small reassurances repeated until trust stopped flinching.
Liam felt the shift too.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just… steadier.
He stopped bracing for impact every time she smiled. Stopped reading too deeply into pauses.
He still guarded himself—but less.
One evening, as they sat on the hood of his truck watching the stars, Annalise leaned her head against his shoulder without thinking.
He froze.
Then relaxed.
She felt it. Smiled softly.
"I'm not leaving," she murmured.
"I know," he said. "And I believe you."
For the first time, she believed herself too.
But staying, she was learning, wasn't a single decision.
It was a series of moments.
And tomorrow would ask her again.