“I know you feel that way now?—”
“No,” I cut her off. “Not justfeel, Mom. Iknow. I knew it when she made me laugh without trying. I knew it when she called me her first safe place. I knew it when I kissed her for the first time and felt like I was home.”
My voice breaks. “And I didn’tknow. I didn’t know who she was to you. I didn’tknow.”
“I know, baby,” she whispers, eyes glistening. “I swear I didn’t either.”
She sits beside me. Reaches for my hand. I let her take it, but it feels wrong—because the hands I want to hold are too far away.
“She looks just like my brother,” she murmurs.
“She looked terrified,” I say quietly. “And she ran. She ran like I was something to be ashamed of.”
“You’re not,” my mom says, squeezing my fingers. “Neither of you are.”
But I don’t believe her. Not all the way.
Because shame doesn’t care who’s right. It just is.
It’s past midnight when I finally crawl back out of bed and pad barefoot to the bathroom. The whole dorm is asleep. The mini-fridge hums low and steady like a lullaby.
I open my phone, go to the camera roll, and scroll until I find it. It’s a video I took at the cotton candy festival. I don’t even think she knew I was filming.
She’s got cotton candy stuck to her bottom lip, and she’s laughing so hard she snorts. She’s teasing me for getting glitter on my face. Her eyes are squinty with sunlight, her hair catching the breeze, and there’s not a single wall up between us in that moment.
It’s just her. Raw. Radiant.
Mine.
I press play again. And again. And again.
I can’t breathe.
The silence she’s left behind is the loudest thing in my life. I didn’t know you could miss someone like this. Like it’s a second heartbeat you don’t know how to live without.
I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want to pressure her. But I can’t keep pretending this didn’t matter. That it wasn’t real.
I open our text thread. The same one that used to be filled with inside jokes and countdowns to our next date. Now it’s just one message.
I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.
My thumbs hover. My chest pounds.
And then I type.
Me: I know this is insane. But I don’t regret a second of it. Not even one.
I hit send.
Then type again.
Me: Can we talk? Just talk.
There’s no read receipt. No dots.
Just more silence.
But I hold the phone anyway.
