Page 17 of Love Letters from a Libra (BLP Signs of Love #13)

“Classic avoidance. Amir calls me out on this all the time. My sister has been telling me for years that I disappear when things get real. I just never had a good enough reason to stop until now.” I shook my head.

Something changed in her expression at that.

“I can’t promise I won’t mess up again. This is decades in the making, but I promise I’ll try. I want to try with you if you still want that.” I reached out, taking her hand.

Zanaa’s eyes moved from my face to my hand and back again when she spoke. Her voice was quiet but clear.

“I appreciate you coming here explaining. Trust isn’t rebuilt in one conversation, even a good one.”

I nodded, accepting the truth of her words. “I know.”

“I need consistency, not perfection, but presence even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard,” she continued.

“That’s fair. More than fair.” I removed my hand from hers, respecting the boundary she’d established.

I didn’t beg or overexplain. There had been enough of that already, and more words wouldn’t bridge the gap my actions created.

Instead, I looked at her directly, allowing her to see whatever she found in my eyes, whether that was hope, fear, or the person I was trying to be rather than the one the pattern had made me.

“The door is open if you still want to walk through it,” I said.

Zanaa nodded, neither accepting nor rejecting, just acknowledging. “We’ll see.”

I cleared my throat. “There’s this thing that happens at Franklin Park near the conservatory. It’s a community stargazing night. My aunt used to take me and Amir when we were kids.”

Zanaa’s eyebrows lifted slightly, interest flickering across her face. This was her territory, stars’ cosmic connections.

“After my mother died, Aunt Nubi stepped in. She didn’t have much. She worked two jobs, lived in a two-bedroom home with a basement where she made a room for me. However, she did have this old telescope that belonged to her father,” I explained.

The memories surfaced with clarity: Aunt Nubi in her warm denim jacket, Amir bundled in a too-big sweater, and me, pretending I wasn’t cold because thirteen-year-old boys didn’t admit to feeling anything as mundane as temperature.

“She’d pack thermoses of hot chocolate, these scratchy old blankets, and the telescope that weighed almost as much as Amir did.

At the park, this astronomy club would set up its equipment.

It was the one place I ever felt like love could stretch without snapping.

” I glanced up to find Zanaa watching me intently, something new in her expression: recognition.

The kind that came from seeing a piece of yourself reflected in someone else’s story.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice gentle in a way that invited rather than demanded.

I searched for the right words to convey what I was trying to say.

“Out there, under those stars, problems seemed smaller and more manageable. My mother was still gone, and Aunt Nubi was still struggling to raise two kids who weren’t hers.

I was trying to be the man of the house at thirteen, but when I looked up at all those stars, the patterns that we watched over countless human struggles, it put things into perspective. ”

Zanaa nodded, understanding in her eyes. This was her language—cosmic perspective, the healing, the power of recognizing our place in a vast universe.

“The next one is Saturday if you’re interested.”

Zanaa didn’t answer immediately, considering the offer with the same thoughtful attention she always did.

I appreciated that she didn’t rush to accept and didn’t pretend everything was instantly fixed.

Her consideration felt like a respect for herself, given the weight of the moment and the careful repair we were attempting.

“It’s not a grand gesture. It’s just something that matters to me, something I’d like to share with you,” I clarified, wanting her to understand.

Her expression shifted. “Those are the best kind of gestures, the real ones,” she said.

Hope rose in my chest, cautious but persistent. I resisted the urge to fill the silence that followed to push for an immediate answer. Instead, I allowed her to think, trying to embody the presence I just promised.

“Okay, I’ll go.” She nodded.

Her words felt monumental. Not forgiveness exactly, but an opening to a willingness to take another step forward together to see where it led.

“Thank you.” I meant the sentiment more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

Zanaa shrugged a small smile, finally appearing. “I’m into astrology. It’s kind of hard to pass up a night of stargazing.”

We sat in silence now. I started to offer to fill the vase for her, but something stopped me. She needed to do it in her own time. My job wasn’t to fix or manage but simply to be present, while she decided what came next.

“I should go,” I said, recognizing that pushing for more tonight would be a mistake.

Zanaa nodded, neither asking me to stay nor rushing me out, though the conversation had reached a natural conclusion for now.

We stood, taking steps to the door, and at the door, I turned to face her, noting how beautiful she was in a head wrap. She was beautiful in an entirely different way than when I first saw her—not just physically attractive but complex, substantive, and real.

“Saturday,” she repeated.

“I’ll text you the details. An actual text with complete sentences and everything,” I replied with a smile.

“Evolution at work.” Zanaa smiled.

I stepped outside the door and paused on the sidewalk, looking up at the stars. Saturday, we’d see more of them together, the first real step forward in our fragile connection. For now, that would be enough.