“But I hurt you.”
“Yeah,” he said simply. “You did. But that doesn't mean it was wrong. Sometimes people hurt each other by doing what they need to do. That's just... life.”
“I don't know how to do this,” I admitted. “How to be here. How to figure out what comes next. How to... be around you without feeling like I'm eighteen again and completely out of my depth.”
“One day at a time,” Evan said. “One conversation at a time. We don't have to figure everything out right now.”
“What if I run again?”
“Then you run. But maybe this time, you'll know what you're running from instead of just running to something you think you want.”
The distinction hit me like a revelation, cutting through six years of confusion to something clearer and more honest underneath.
“When did you get so wise?” I asked.
“When I had to learn how to live without you and still function like a normal human being.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest ache with all the time we'd lost, all the conversations we'd never had, all the ways we'd both learned to be whole without the other half of whatever we'd been together.
“For what it's worth,” I said, “I never learned how to live without you. I just got really good at pretending I had.”
Evan's smile was soft around the edges, sad and hopeful in equal measure.
“Maybe that's something we can work on together.”
I was about to respond with something equally profound and emotionally significant when a particularly aggressive mallard decided that our conversation had gone on long enough without proper tribute. The duck—who I immediately dubbed General Quackers based on his apparent leadership qualities—waddled out of the water with the determination of someone collecting overdue rent.
“Uh, Evan?” I nodded toward our approaching feathered dictator. “I think we're about to be evicted.”
General Quackers stopped directly in front of us and unleashed a series of quacks that sounded distinctly like threats. His backup—a motley crew of ducks, geese, and what looked like one very confused pigeon—formed a semicircle behind him.
“I think they want more crackers,” Evan said, trying not to laugh.
“I think they want our souls,” I countered. “Look at those eyes. That's not hunger. That's judgment.”
As if to prove my point, General Quackers stepped forward and pecked at my shoelace with the focused intensity of someone who meant business.
“Okay, okay!” I held up my empty hands. “I'm out of crackers! This is all I've got!”
The duck gave me a look that clearly conveyed his opinion of my inadequate snack provisions, then turned to Evan with what I swear was hope.
“Don't look at me,” Evan said to the duck. “I didn't bring anything either.”
General Quackers quacked once, sharp and accusatory, then turned and waddled back toward the pond with the air of someone who'd been personally betrayed by the universe. His followers dispersed with varying degrees of disappointment, except for the pigeon, who lingered long enough to give us both a judgmental stare before flying away.
“Well,” I said, watching the avian drama unfold. “That was humbling.”
“I think we just got told off by a duck.”
“Not just any duck. That was clearly the duck equivalent of a drill sergeant. Did you see the way he organized his troops?”
Evan was grinning now, the heavy emotional weight of our conversation temporarily lifted by absurd waterfowl politics. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow. With better offerings.”
“What do you think the duck mafia prefers? Bread? Corn? Artisanal crackers?”
“Probably something organic. These look like sophisticated ducks.”
I snorted with laughter, the sound echoing across the water and earning me another reproachful look from General Quackers. “Right. Sophisticated ducks who just staged a coordinated shakedown operation.”
