“They didn’t like that,” I add.
Still, she says nothing. Just watches me, waiting for the rest.
“They said if I ever pull that again, next time… it won’t be me who pays the price.”
There’s no question in her face. No need to ask who they meant.
“I came here to say goodbye,” I admit. “Figured if I stayed away, it’d be cleaner.”
She takes a breath.
“But I couldn’t do it,” I say, voice low now. “I got halfway here and all I could think about was how quiet it’d be. Without you talking. Without your voice walking around in my damn head.”
I turn toward her.
“I don’t want to talk about death right now,” I say. “Can we talk about something else?”
She nods. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
I shrug, shoulders tight. “The weather. The traffic. The way the bread downstairs smells like vanilla at night.”
She smiles, slow and warm. “You noticed that?”
I nod.
She walks to the kitchen, comes back with two mugs, hands me one without asking if I want it.
We sit and we talk. About nothing.
And for a little while, it’s everything.
8
KALEIGH
The tea has gone cold between my hands, but I haven’t taken a sip in ten minutes. Rafe hasn’t noticed. Or maybe he has and just doesn’t care. He’s sitting in the armchair by the window like the furniture molded itself around him, broad shoulders hunched forward, fingers laced together in a way that makes his knuckles look like they’ve been through hell and never quite found their way back. The steam from my mug has disappeared. The night outside the window has folded into a deep kind of quiet, the kind that only happens when the city exhales after a long, violent breath.
We haven’t spoken much since he arrived. He asked if we could talk, and then we didn’t. Not about anything that mattered. He asked what book I’d been reading. I asked if he still smoked. He said no, not anymore. I didn’t ask why.
Now the silence sits between us like something alive, breathing slow and heavy, not threatening, just there. I don’t fill it. I’ve learned not to fill silences with words just to feel useful. Silence isn’t emptiness. Not with him.
He shifts in the chair, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a breath like it’s been sitting in his chest for too long.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he says, voice low enough that if the music weren’t off, I might not have heard it.
I set my mug on the table. “Stop what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, like the words are caught behind his teeth, scraping the edge of permission.
“The instinct,” he says finally. “To do. To end. To… react.”
I nod once, slow. “The impulse.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s always there. Even when I’m quiet. Especially then. Like a coil pulled too tight under my ribs.”
I shift on the couch, turning toward him, curling one leg beneath me. The air feels warmer now, but it might just be the way the conversation is finally stepping into the room.
“When did it start?” I ask, gently. “That feeling.”
