"I know you're in there, Waverly. I can see the glow of your light beneath the door frame." His voice is rough and worn, exhausted from days of pleading and sleepless nights. "I'm not leaving this hallway until you talk to me. I'll stay here all night if I have to."
"There's nothing left to talk about." My voice sounds hollow and flat to my own ears, like it belongs to someone else entirely—someone who's already given up.
"That's not true and you know it." A weighted pause follows, and I can almost picture him leaning his forehead against the door. "I love you. I'm in love with you."
The words strike me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. He's never said those exact words before, not like this. We've danced carefully around them, implied them through glances and touches, shown them in a hundred differentwordless ways, but neither of us has ever dared to speak them out loud until now.
"Don't," I whisper, my throat tight with unshed tears. "Please don't say that to me."
"Why not? It's the truth. The only truth that matters."
"Because it makes this harder." I press my forehead against the door, imagining I can feel the warmth of him on the other side. "I'm trying to do the right thing, Cillian. I'm trying to save you from yourself."
"I don't need saving. I need you."
"You need someone who won't ruin your life. You need someone who won't make you give up everything you've worked for. You need someone better than me."
Silence. For a moment, I think he's left. Then his voice comes again, softer now: "There is no one better than you. There's no one else at all. Just you. Just us. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall. "Go home, Cillian. Please. Just go home."
I hear him exhale slowly. Then footsteps, retreating down the hallway. When I peek through the window a few minutes later, I see him standing on the sidewalk below, looking up at my building. He stands there for an hour before finally walking away.
The next morning, I make a decision.
I pack a bag with the few things that matter: some clothes, my grandmother's photo album, the locket I wear every day. I leavemost of my apartment untouched, like a crime scene waiting to be discovered. I'll send for the rest later, or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll start over completely, become someone new in a place where no one knows my name.
The train station is crowded with morning commuters, businessmen in suits clutching coffee cups, families with children and luggage. I buy a ticket for the first train out of the city, destination irrelevant. Anywhere is better than here. Anywhere is better than staying and watching him throw his life away for me.
I find a bench on the platform and sit down, my bag at my feet, my ticket clutched in my hand. The departure board flickers with times and destinations, and I feel the dull inevitability of what I'm about to do settling into my bones.
This is the right choice. I know it is. If I leave, he can take it all back. He can tell the diocese it was a moment of weakness, a temporary lapse in judgment. He can return to his congregation and his sermons and his safe, structured life. He can forget about me.
The thought of him forgetting about me makes my chest ache so badly I can barely breathe.
I grip my grandmother's locket and close my eyes. "I'm doing the right thing, Nana," I whisper. "He deserves better than what I can give him."
But even as I say it, I hear her voice in my head, the way I always do when I'm trying to convince myself of something I don't believe. "Since when is running away the right thing, sweetheart? Since when is giving up on love before you've given it a chance?"
"I'm not giving up," I argue quietly with the phantom voice of my grandmother echoing in my mind. "I'm protecting him from the consequences of my presence in his life."
"From what, exactly? From experiencing genuine happiness? From having someone in his life who truly loves him for who he is? From living out the life he actively chose for himself?"
"He didn't choose this path freely. He only chose it because of me, because of what I represent. Because I made him desire things he shouldn't want, things that go against everything he's built."
"And who gets to decide what he should or shouldn't want? Is it you? Is it the church and its rigid expectations? Or is it him—the man himself?"
I don't have an answer for that. I never have an answer when Nana's voice challenges me. She was always the one who saw through my excuses, who pushed me to be braver than I felt. And she's not here anymore, which means I have to push myself.
But I'm not brave. I'm not strong. I'm just a girl who fell in love with the wrong man and doesn't know how to fix it.
The departure board updates. My train will arrive in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and then I'll be gone. He'll never find me. He'll grieve for a while, maybe, but eventually he'll move on. He'll realize I was right. He'll thank me for leaving before things got worse.
I tell myself all of this, and I almost believe it. Then I hear my name.
"WAVERLY."
My head snaps up. He's there, at the far end of the platform, pushing through the crowd with a desperation that makes my heart stop. He's in civilian clothes again, jeans and a sweater, and his hair is wild like he didn't take time to comb it before running out the door.
