“Yes.”
“You blocked me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think I didn’t matter.”
“No,” I said quickly, then stopped. Reframed. “You mattered too much. And I didn’t know how to hold that without breaking.”
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “That’s supposed to make it better?”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s just the truth.”
His breathing picked up, shallow and uneven. His hand curled weakly in the sheets. “I spent weeks—months if I’m being honest—trying to figure out what I’d done wrong,” he whispered. “Every silence felt like proof. Like I’d finally loved someone enough to drive them away.”
I stood abruptly; the chair scraping softly against the floor, then stopped myself from pacing. From reaching. I stayed right where I was, hands trembling uselessly at my sides.
“You didn’t drive me away,” I said. “I ran. And I am so—” My voice broke completely. I swallowed hard. “I am so fucking sorryI left you alone in that.” Tears streamed down his face unchecked now.
“I didn’t want to die,” he said. “I just couldn’t live inside the quiet you left behind.”
The words crushed something vital in me.
“I know,” I whispered. “They told me about the alcohol in your system. But there was none in the car.” I looked at him, really looked. “You weren’t trying to disappear. You were trying to be heard.”
His lips pressed together. A nod, barely there. “I wrote the note because I didn’t know how else to reach you,” he said. “I found out you blocked me and it felt like being erased while I was still breathing.”
My chest seized. I dropped back into the chair hard, suddenly unable to stand anymore. “I read it,” I said. “Every word.” My hands shook violently now. “And I will carry it with me for the rest of my life.”
He watched me carefully. Hurt. Love. Something wounded and wary threading through both.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “But loving you shouldn’t feel like this.”
He was right.
“I know,” I said. Tears slid down my face unchecked now. “And that’s why I need you to hear this next part, even if it hurts.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight like prayer. “I love you,” I said. “Completely. Ruinously. But I cannot pretend that love alone fixes what I broke. I don’t get to walk back in here and have you make it okay just because I finally showed up.”
His throat bobbed.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” I continued. “I’m asking you to let me stay and earn the right to be here. Day by day. With help. With honesty. Without disappearing when it gets hard.”
Silence.
His response was so soft I hardly heard it over the thundering of my heart in my temples
“And if I can’t?” he asked. “If one day you wake up and realize you’re still afraid?”
I met his gaze and didn’t look away. “Then I will say it out loud,” I said. “I will not leave without telling you. I will not vanish. I will not make my fear your punishment again.”
His hand trembled as he lifted it slightly, then let it fall back to the bed. “I don’t know if I can trust you yet,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said. “You shouldn’t. Not yet.”
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “But I still love you,” he said.
My chest cracked open. “So do I,” I said. “And this time, I’m not running from what that costs.”
