Act IV - Reckon and Rise

Introduction

Love can't grow in a garden full of secrets.

Zariah and Malik both came into this with scars--but this act? This is where the wounds get touched. Exposed. Tested. Where trust becomes a battleground, and the sex? It's not healing anymore. It's survival. It's proximity therapy. It's using bodies to say what hearts are too afraid to speak.

Simone strikes with a sharp tongue and a deeper truth.

Jared gets too close. Too bold. Too dangerous.

And when Zariah hides something Malik needed to hear first?

They don't fall apart.

They crack--just enough to question everything they've rebuilt.

Because sometimes, the break has to happen before the bend.

And sometimes, the people you love most are the ones who make you face your worst truths

Zariah Walks Out to Reclaim Herself

The light through the blinds was soft--almost apologetic.

It slipped between the slats like a secret trying not to wake her.

But Zariah was already awake.

Had been for hours.

She didn't move. Just stared at the ceiling and listened--to the drip of a faucet in the bathroom, to the dull buzz of Malik's old shop radio through the floorboards. The house felt heavy again. Not with heat this time, but with unspoken things.

Her body was sore in that good, aching way, but her chest?

That was something else.

Tight. Knotted.

Like her soul was trying to unlearn the way it curled around his name.

She rolled out of bed quietly. No ceremony. No goodbye.

Just jeans, a tank, her sneakers. A bottle of water grabbed from the fridge.

She didn't look toward the garage.

Didn't knock on the door.

She just left.

The morning air hit her like a balm.

Still humid, still clinging--but cleaner somehow.

No walls. No whispers. Just sidewalk and sky.

She walked past the Jenkins' place--same crooked porch swing, same loud gospel pouring through the screen.

Old Mr. Daniels waved from his lawn chair.

Kids she didn't recognize rode rusted bikes with spokes clicking like applause.

And just for a second, she felt invisible.

Not forgotten.

Unburdened.

Halfway down Sycamore Street, she passed the house where she'd had her first kiss.

Not Malik.

Derrick Lattimore, sixth grade, behind the azalea bushes.

She remembered his breath stank of grape Now & Laters and nerves, and that they both ran the second their lips touched.

She smiled.

Small memory. Big reminder.

She'd lived a whole life before this mess.

The swing set behind Mt. Calvary still groaned when she sat.

She let her legs dangle, kicked gently, watched a bird pick at a busted potato chip bag near the fence.

She didn't cry. Not yet.

But she did feel.

Every raw edge inside her. Every hope she hadn't dared name. Every version of herself that had been too scared, too silenced, too sorry.

Mrs. Geneva sat beside her without asking.

"You remember when I caught you skipping class in tenth grade?"

Zariah glanced over. "I was hiding behind the bleachers."

Geneva nodded. "You were cryin'. Told me you didn't know how to be good at anything that didn't involve running."

Zariah chuckled, tears prickling now. "You told me maybe that was my gift."

"No. I told you maybe you needed to figure out what you were running toward before you kept burning up all that good energy."

They sat quietly.

Then Zariah said it, finally, like it was being peeled from her chest:

"I don't want to run anymore."

Geneva nodded, gentle. "That's the first step. The rest? That's breath work, baby. That's showing up, even when your knees shake."

"I'm scared of breaking him," she whispered. "Of breaking us. Again."

"Then stop using guilt as your compass. Start using love."

Zariah blinked. "I don't know how."

"You do. You just ain't trusted yourself to do it."

She stood. "Go on home. Don't apologize. Just tell your truth. Then hold his hand and walk through the fire with him."

Zariah took the long way back.

Past the football field.

Past the liquor store where she once slapped a man for grabbing her ass.

Past the bridge where Malik kissed her wrist once, and it made her knees weak for a week.

She came back into the yard like she belonged there.

Not because he asked her to.

Not because sex had tied her up.

But because she chose it.

She opened the front door.

Malik was on the couch.

Shirtless. Remote in hand. Looking like worry and restraint wrapped in skin.

He stood when he saw her.

Didn't speak.

Didn't scowl.

Just waited.

Zariah dropped her keys on the table.

"I needed air," she said softly. "Not space. Not distance. Just air."

He nodded once.

"I don't know how to do this right," she continued, stepping closer. "But I want to learn. And I want to learn with you."

Malik stepped forward.

Still didn't speak.

But his hand cupped her cheek like a yes

Malik's Quiet Confession

The swing creaked beneath them, slow and steady. A rhythm older than apologies. Older than the hurt sitting between them like a ghost they hadn't exorcised yet.

Zariah didn't speak. She sat with her legs pulled under her, eyes trained on Malik like she could will the weight off his shoulders if she just waited long enough.

He stared straight ahead--out at the empty stretch of yard, out past the place where the porch light couldn't reach.

Then, voice low and dry as old paper, he said, "My father taught me everything I needed to know about being a man... by not being one."

Zariah blinked. the words landed in her chest before she fully processed them.

Malik didn't look at her. His fingers flexed against his knees like he was wringing something invisible.

"He didn't hit us. Never raised a hand. Didn't have to. He just... left. Again and again. Showed up when it was convenient. Brought gifts. Promised Sundays. Then vanished."

Zariah's voice was barely a whisper. "He abandoned you."

Malik's jaw tightened. "He made it look good, too. Had charisma. That smile that made you forget you were mad. He'd show up with a toy, a story, a fake promise--and then vanish. Like he'd evaporated."

Zariah turned toward him, drawn closer by the rawness in his voice.

"So I learned early: don't get used to love. Don't count on it. Don't lean."

His hands curled into fists.

"By the time I was fifteen, I stopped waiting for him. But the damage was done. I built everything I am on the bones of what he wasn't."

He finally looked at her, eyes dark and aching.

"That's why I was cold to you when you left. I knew the blueprint. Knew how to box it up, bury the soft parts."

Zariah reached for his hand. He let her take it.

"I wanted to hate you," he said.

"Why didn't you?"

His laugh was short. Hollow. "Because even when I cursed you, I still heard your name when I closed my eyes. You lived under my skin. In the quiet. In the music. In the way no other woman's touch ever felt like home."

Zariah swallowed hard. Her grip on his hand tightened.

"I don't talk about this shit. Not to anyone. You get that, right?"

She nodded. "I get it."

"I've always been the one who fixed things. Who did. I don't sit in feelings. I move. I work. I fuck. I push it down and tell myself that's what being a man looks like."

His voice broke slightly. "But I'm tired, Z."

The admission landed between them like thunder.

"I'm tired of holding my pain like it's proof of strength. I'm tired of fucking you like it's the only way I know how to show you I care. I want to be soft with you. I want to let go. But I don't know how without feeling like I'm losing."

"You're not losing," she said, voice trembling. "You're letting me in."

He looked at her for a long time. Something in him shifted.

"You want to know what scares me most?" he asked.

She nodded.

"That you'll leave again. But not all at once. Piece by piece. Emotion by emotion. That I'll see it in your eyes before you say the words. And I won't be able to stop it."

A tear slipped down Zariah's cheek.

He caught it with his thumb.

"I've loved you since before I had the words. Since that night you kissed me under the bleachers and ran away. Since we snuck behind the church just to hold hands."

"I've loved you too," she whispered. "But I never believed love was something I could keep."

Malik leaned in, forehead resting against hers.

"I don't want to survive you," he said. "I want to live with you. Wake up beside you without fear. Grow old and argue over dumb shit and learn how to be better together."

Zariah climbed into his lap, straddling him, her hands cupping his face. "Then let's start now. Not with promises. But with truth."

He nodded slowly. "Truth is... I wrote you a letter once. Never gave it to you."

"Where is it?"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper--creased, soft with age. Handed it to her without a word.

She opened it carefully.

The handwriting was rough, slanted. Malik's.

"I don't hate you. I hate that you're the only person who ever made me want to be soft. And I don't know how to do that without bleeding."

Her lips parted. Her eyes stayed on the page, but her soul turned to him.

"I wasn't ready to read this," she said.

"I wasn't ready to give it," he replied.

She kissed him. Not out of lust. Not to avoid what had been said.

But to honor it.

They stayed wrapped around each other long after the swing slowed to a stop.

No sex. No rush.

Just skin. Warmth. Safety.

At some point, Zariah curled into his chest and whispered, "Thank you for trusting me."

Malik kissed the top of her head and whispered back, "Thank you for not running."

Then, after a long silence, he added softly, "There was this one night..."

Zariah leaned back just enough to look him in the eyes.

"I must've been about eleven," he said. "My mom was working a double. Lights went out. I lit every candle I could find, kept my sister calm, fed her peanut butter on crackers like it was a feast. And I sat out front with a hammer in my lap just in case something came. That night, I became everything I thought a man had to be."

Zariah's eyes welled again.

"I never got to just be a boy," he said. "Never had a man show me how to cry and come back stronger. Only how to hide it. How to bury it in muscle and silence."

Zariah kissed his hand, then his cheek.

"You don't have to do that anymore."

He nodded. "I'm trying."

Then he handed her something else--smaller than the letter. A silver key.

She stared at it. "What's this?"

"To the shop," he said. "You don't have to keep it. But I want you to know... the door's not just open. It's yours, if you want it."

Zariah held the key tight. Then kissed him again.

This time, it wasn't slow.

It was certain.

Quiet Intimacy and Safety After the Storm

The house felt different that night.

It wasn't the scent of lemon balm drifting in from the cracked window, or the softness in Malik's footsteps as he followed her inside. It was the silence.

Not cold. Not wounded.

But settled.

Zariah kicked off her sneakers and left the key he'd given her on the nightstand without a word. Not because she was rejecting it--but because she was planning to use it.

Malik stepped behind her, hands brushing the small of her back. Not pulling. Just... being there.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Starving," she said.

But neither of them moved toward the kitchen.

He leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder. It wasn't sexual. It wasn't leading. It was an anchor.

And she needed that more than food.

She changed into one of his t-shirts--faded gray, soft from wear. He stayed in his jeans, bare chest and all, like vulnerability had finally found a place to land.

They lay on the couch, her body pressed against his, her leg slung over his thigh. He played with her fingers absentmindedly, tracing the lines of her palm like he was reading scripture.

"I used to do this when I missed you," he said. "Pretend your hand was still in mine. Just so I could sleep."

Zariah buried her face in his neck. "I used to leave voicemails I never sent. Just to hear myself say your name."

They stayed there. No TV. No music. Just the tick of the old wall clock and their twin heartbeats.

Later, in the bedroom, Zariah stood by the window while Malik pulled the sheets back.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded, but didn't move.

"Z," he said, stepping closer. "Talk to me."

She turned. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of being happy and not knowing how to hold it."

He pulled her into his arms. "Then let me help you carry it."

That undid her.

She melted into him, arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his heartbeat.

"I don't need fireworks," she said. "Just this."

"This is all I've ever wanted," he whispered.

They got into bed without ceremony.

No teasing.

No urgency.

Just the quiet slide of skin against cotton and the warmth of another body saying, I'm here. Stay.

Malik spooned her from behind, one arm wrapped around her waist, palm spread low across her belly. His breath found a rhythm with hers.

And Zariah felt it for the first time in years--safety.

Not just from the world.

But from herself.

"You want kids?" she asked into the darkness.

His hand stilled for a moment, then moved again, soft circles on her stomach.

"Maybe. If it's with you."

She smiled, eyes still closed. "You'd be a good father."

"I want to be the man I never had," he said. "Not perfect. Just... present."

Zariah turned in his arms, faced him.

Their foreheads touched.

She kissed him once. Then again.

He didn't press for more. Didn't guide her thigh over his hip. Didn't ask her to take off the shirt.

He just held her like her softness was sacred.

And in that space, in that hush between everything they'd said and everything they still feared, they found rest.

Somewhere around midnight, Malik whispered, "You still awake?"

"Mhm."

He kissed her temple. "I love you."

Zariah didn't hesitate this time.

"I love you too."

No panic.

No armor.

Just truth in the quiet.

In the morning, she woke first.

Malik was still asleep, mouth slightly parted, one arm sprawled over her like he was afraid she might vanish in the night.

She didn't.

She stayed.

She brushed her fingers through his locs and whispered, "You're safe, too."

He didn't wake.

But maybe he didn't need to.

Zariah vs. Jared: Closure Without Violence

Zariah didn't tell Malik.

She didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't give him a chance to step in and protect her.

Because this wasn't about him.

It was about taking back her voice.

Jared was at the café. The one she used to visit every Friday when they were still... whatever they were. He always sat outside, ordered black coffee he never finished, and wore that same polished calm like it was armor.

She walked up slow, heart steady. Not calm. But clear.

He looked up and smiled. That same damn smile.

"I wondered if you'd show," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Still predictable, huh?"

Zariah didn't sit. "Don't mistake silence for submission, Jared."

His smile twitched. "That was a compliment."

"No. That was control. Just like the constant texts. The voicemails. The photo. The pop-up."

He raised a brow, unbothered. "I just wanted to talk."

"You don't want conversation. You want access."

He blinked. That word hit.

"I'm not yours," she said, voice low but strong. "I never was."

His eyes narrowed, the charm slipping just a little. "You're being dramatic."

"You manipulated me," she continued. "Gaslit me. Guilt-tripped me into thinking your attention was a gift. But it was always a leash."

Now his smile was gone.

"I never laid a hand on you," he said, like that excused everything.

"But you laid your intentions on me every damn day," she snapped. "You hovered. You withheld. You reminded me constantly that I was lucky you chose me. That's emotional abuse, Jared. You don't have to throw punches to leave bruises."

He leaned forward now. "You said you loved me."

"I said I was lonely," she corrected. "And you filled the silence with control."

He stood, towering, chest puffed just slightly. "You think that man you're with now is any better? You think he won't break you, too?"

Zariah stepped closer. Inches from his face.

"I'm not scared of breaking anymore," she said. "Because I've already been broken. And I survived."

She turned to walk away.

He grabbed her wrist.

Wrong move.

She froze. Slowly turned her head.

"Let go," she said, ice in her voice.

He hesitated.

"I said. Let. Go."

He released her.

"I came here to tell you this to your face," she said. "Don't call me again. Don't show up. Don't send messages through mutual friends. If you do, I'll get legal with it."

He scoffed, but his hand was shaking.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said. "Not anymore. And you? You're terrified of women who don't flinch."

She walked away.

Didn't look back.

Didn't cry.

And for the first time since Jared's shadow followed her out of Atlanta, she felt clean.

That night, she came home late.

Malik was on the couch, shirt off, remote in hand. He stood the second she walked in.

"You okay?" he asked.

Zariah nodded. "Handled it."

He didn't ask how.

He just opened his arms.

She walked into them.

Rested her head on his chest.

"I'm proud of you," he whispered.

She smiled. "Me too."

Later, she showered until the steam fogged every inch of the mirror.

She washed away more than sweat.

She washed away him.

The version of herself that had ever needed Jared's approval.

The quiet. The compliance. The shrinking.

She wrapped herself in a towel and walked into the bedroom with nothing but softness on her skin and strength in her spine.

Malik looked up from the bed, eyes heavy-lidded with quiet want.

"You look lighter," he said.

She climbed in beside him. "I am."

They didn't speak much more.

Because some victories don't need a trophy.

Some freedom is its own reward.

And Zariah had earned this one.

Every breath. Every heartbeat.

Was finally hers.