Fuck. I hated how much he noticed. How his voice slipped past my defenses, gentle but unrelenting. It made me want to crawl out of my skin.
He stepped closer, setting the mug down beside me. The brush of his shoulder near mine sent heat lancing through my ribcage. “You haven’t eaten.”
“You sound like my mom,” I said, and immediately regretted it. Anthony winced, and the silence that followed was razor-sharp. “No—shit. I didn’t mean it like that.”
He nodded, but the damage lingered between us, quiet and impossible to take back.
I wanted to explain. To tell him I’d written about him again last night. That his name was etched into the margins of my grief like a safety net. That sometimes I stared at the wall and imagined him finding my journal, reading every warped, want-heavy word. Of him seeing every ounce of pain that bled out of me.
But instead I said, “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t, El,” he said, softly. “It’s already weird. We’re all grieving. Everything’s sideways.”
He called me El again, and my whole spine went stiff.
“I didn’t think it would be this hard,” I whispered. “I thought... maybe I’d be better by now.”
Anthony picked up the mug again but didn’t drink. He held it like it was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking.
“I never stopped thinking about her… about you,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Even after all those years. And now… I’ll never get the chance to tell her how sorry I am.”
I looked at him. Really looked. The man I’d always thought was untouchable. Indestructible—this perfect, put-together thing—was unraveling at the seams. Red-rimmed eyes. Tired. Haunted.
Somehow, it made him more beautiful. That was the worst part.
“I miss her,” I whispered.
“I know.” His voice cracked around the words. “Me too.”
It happened before I could stop it. “I wrote about you today.”
His eyes flicked to mine. A slow blink. “What?”
“I... Forget it. It’s dumb. I just—sometimes it’s easier to write than talk.”
“What did you write?”
I hesitated. He didn’t sound amused. Just curious.Gentle.
“I wrote that I feel like I’m disappearing,” I said. “And that you’re the only one who sees me.” My pulse roared in my ears as soon as I said it, like I’d stepped too close to something flammable.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Anthony put the mug down again. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes didn’t leave mine as he swallowed audibly. “El?—”
“No, it’s fine,” I rushed. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m too much and not enough all at once. And I don’t know how to carry that without... breaking.”
He stepped closer, so close I could smell the coffee on his breath and the faint scent of his soap. “You’re not too much.”
My eyes burned. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said. “You’re hurting. You’re grieving. But you’re still here. And that matters. You matter.”
I didn’t know if I was crying or not. My whole body felt like a bruise. “Sometimes,” I murmured, “the only reason I’m still here is because...” I left the “of you” unsaid.
Something cracked in his expression. Something old and sacred and terrified. “Then I’m glad I stayed,” he answered, as if he heard what I hadn’t been brave enough to say. The words felt heavier than a promise. Lighter than a lie.
Unable to breathe, I thought maybe he’d reach for me. Maybe he’d let me fall apart against him. That he’d catch me. But he didn’t. He just reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. Just that one simple touch made me shudder when his thick fingers dug into my skin.
