Page 109 of Wisteria and Cloves
I nodded, still feeling the lingering flutter of anxiety as I glanced over my menu again.
You don't need to be nervous," Julian said softly, setting his menu down. "It's just me."
"That's exactly why I'm nervous," I admitted, my voice barely audible over the gentle trickle of the nearby fountain. "Because it's you."
His expression softened further, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Would it help if I told you I'm nervous as well?”
I blinked at him. “You? Nervous?”
Julian chuckled, low and warm. “Terribly.” He leaned back slightly, folding his hands on the table. “You have this effect on people, Lilianna.”
I let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and shook my head. “I think you’re just being kind.”
“I’m being honest,” he said, his voice gentler now. “From the moment we saw you… There was something about you. I didn’t know what it was yet. I just knew I wanted to understand it.”
That left me quiet for a moment. I wasn’t used to people wanting to understand me. I was used to being managed, molded, or misunderstood. I looked down again at the menu, then back up at Julian, who hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
“I think I’ll go with the trout,” I said softly. “It sounds… comforting.”
He smiled and flagged down the waiter. His quiet competence was calming, and as he spoke with the waiter, I let myself exhale slowly. Maybe I didn’t have to carry so much tension tonight. Maybe I could just… be.
Once our orders were in, Julian sipped his wine and glanced toward the soft tangle of greenery beyond the glass. “I always liked this place. It always calmed me.”
“I feel that too,” I said, folding my hands together. “It’s peaceful here. Like everything outside doesn’t exist.”
Julian glanced at me again, a smile lingering. “You seem different today. Not in a bad way. Just… lighter.”
I hesitated. “I posted again.”
“Another poem?” he asked, interest sparking in his hazel eyes.
I nodded. “And a short caption. A reflection, really. About how healing isn’t a straight line.” I chewed my lip, debating if I should show him. Then I pulled my phone from my small clutch and turned the screen toward him.
He leaned forward, reading the post carefully. I watched his expression shift—softening in places, tightening around the edges when he got to the end.
The caption read:
“I used to think I was broken because I didn’t bloom the way they expected me to. But I’m learning that some things grow slower, deeper—hidden roots before flowers. And maybe that’s okay.”
I’d paired it with a photo of an unfurling fern, dewdrops clinging to the delicate curve.
“When did you post again?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “After breakfast…I sat there trying to read and my mind drifted to what had been happening…. and that is what ended up coming out.”
Julian handed the phone back to me, his expression unreadable for a moment. “It’s beautiful. Raw in the best way.”
“It already has over seven thousand likes,” I whispered, still stunned. “I hit five thousand followers yesterday, and now I’m at over seven. People are tagging their friends. Sharing it. Someone even made a watercolor illustration of my poem this morning.”
Julian leaned in again, his voice low and sure. “Because your words matter. You’re showing people a kind of quiet bravery they don’t know how to name—but they feel it.”
I blinked, my throat suddenly tight. “It doesn’t feel brave. It feels like I’m peeling parts of myself open and hoping nobody laughs.”
He reached across the table, brushing his fingertips over mine. “Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s walking forward anyway.” I stared at our hands. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d wanted to be held like this—not physically, but emotionally. Safely. Reverently.
“I used to think I was only valuable when I was quiet. Obedient. Small.” My voice trembled just a little. “But lately… I want to see what happens if I stop apologizing for existing.”
Julian’s thumb traced a small arc across my knuckles. “I want that for you too. And not just as someone watching from the side. I want to be part of it—cheering you on when you soar. Steadying you when you stumble.”
