If I looked at him now, at the hurt and confusion I knew would be written all over his face, I’d break. I’d take it all back. Stay. Pretend the fear wasn’t there.
We didn’t have time for pretending.
I opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.
The temperature dropped immediately. The heating barely reached up here. My breath fogged in the dim light from the bare bulb overhead.
I closed the door behind me. Leaned against it for a moment. Listened.
No sound from inside. No footsteps. No attempts to follow.
He was giving me the space I’d asked for.
Even though it was clearly killing him.
I pushed off the door. Walked down the narrow hallway toward the stairs.
The old boards creaked under my feet. Each sound felt too loud in the silence. Accusatory.
Running again, Clare?
Emma’s voice drifted through my head.
“I’m not running. I’m thinking.”
You thought with Emma. Thought you had time. Look how that turned out.
“Shut up,” I whispered to the empty hallway.
But the voice didn’t stop. It never did.
What if you’re wrong again? What if this is the moment he needs you and you’re walking away?
My steps slowed. I looked back toward our room.
The door remained closed. No light visible underneath.
He wasn’t following.
Because I’d asked him not to.
Because he trusted me to come back.
Do you deserve that trust?
I didn’t have an answer.
I turned back toward the stairs. Kept walking.
The cold bit through my coat the moment I stepped outside. Frost crunched under my boots. The moon hung low and full, turning the grounds into something alien and beautiful.
I walked without direction. Just moved. Breathed. Let the freezing air burn my lungs.
Maeve.
The name circled in my head like a taunt.
Who was she? Wife? Girlfriend? Sister? Friend?
