It’s about protecting me.
From feeling something real. From wanting something I have no right to want. From the guilt that claws at me every time I think about Isotta and then immediately think about Jess in the same breath.
Control masquerading as care.
Fuck.
I stare at the wall where a photo of Ben used to hang before I moved it to my desk instead. Safer there. More contained.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Jess.
Ben asked if we can make focaccia tonight. Said she wants to count the bubbles again.
Fuck. My chest seizes like someone just squeezed all the air out of it.
Why does she have this effect on me?
I text back:Sure thing. I’ll be home by six.
Three dots. Then:Great. I’ll prep the starter.
That’s it. No subtext.
Except... there’salwayssubtext now.
Every text.
Every glance.
Every moment we’re in the same room pretending we didn’t fuck in that studio.
Pretending we didn’t kiss last night.
Pretending this is sustainable.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair.
Yes, the smart move is still firing her.
But... the right move is keeping her.
And the difference between those two things is the gap I’ve been living in since Isotta died.
Smart versus right.
Control versus care.
Safety versus actually living.
I think about Ben’s face when Jess does the brave rules with her. The way my daughter’s anxiety has dropped. How she sleeps through the night now. How she smiles more.
How Jess makes our house feel like a home instead of a museum to grief and fear.
And I know right away.
I’m not firing her.
I can’t.
