“It’s the truth.”
“It’s BOTH.” He stepped closer, and I could see it now—the anger underneath the hurt, the frustration underneath the grief. “You’re scared. Fine. Everyone’s scared. I’m TERRIFIED. But that’s not a reason to refuse to choose. That’s a reason to choose CAREFULLY. To pick someone worth the risk.”
“What if I pick wrong again?”
“What if you never pick at all?” His voice was relentless. “What if you spend the rest of your life spinning plates, keeping options open, never committing to anything because you’re too scared of getting hurt? Is that better? Is that the life you want?”
“No—”
“Then stop LIVING it.” He was close now, close enough that I could see the grey in his hair, the lines around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. “Stop hiding behind fear. Stop treating every person who cares about you like an option instead of a choice. Stop running.”
“I don’t know how.”
The words came out small. Broken. And something in his expression shifted—the anger draining away, leaving only exhaustion.
“I know.” His voice was quieter now. “I know you don’t know how. And I wish I could teach you. I wish I could wait whileyou figured it out.” He shook his head slowly. “But I can’t. I’ve already lost one person I loved. I can’t spend my life waiting for someone who might never choose me back.”
He stopped. Took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, but I could hear the grief underneath.
“I watched my wife die.”
The words hung in the air.
“I loved her more than I knew it was possible to love someone. And then I watched her disappear an inch at a time. Six months of doctors saying there was nothing more they could do. Six months of holding her hand while she got smaller and smaller.” His eyes were wet, but his voice was steady. “At the end, I promised myself I would never love anyone like that again. Because I couldn’t survive losing someone like that twice.”
“I’m not asking you to?—”
“You’re not asking me ANYTHING. That’s the problem.” He stepped closer, suddenly intense. “You come here for quiet. You almost kiss me. You run back to your chaos. You never actually CHOOSE. And I can’t—I WON’T—let myself care about someone who doesn’t know if she wants me.”
“I DO want?—”
“Do you? Or do you just want the quiet? The escape? The man who makes your phone stop buzzing?” His voice sharpened. “Because that’s not the same thing, Diane. Wanting what I can do for you isn’t the same as wanting ME.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Because he was right.
I HAD been treating him like that. A safe harbor. A place to escape when the storm got too loud. I came to his shop when I needed quiet, left when I needed to deal with reality, and never once asked myself what that meant for him. Whether I was using him. Whether he deserved better.
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I know.” He cut me off, not unkind but firm. “You never mean to. But intention doesn’t change impact.”
“Then let me fix it. Let me prove?—”
“How? By coming here again tomorrow? Sitting in my chair, drinking my tea, making me hope for something you’re not willing to commit to?” He shook his head. “I spent two years learning how to be alone. I can do it for the rest of my life if I have to. What I can’t do is stand here and wait for you to figure out if I’m worth choosing.”
“You ARE worth?—”
“Then choose me.” His voice was raw. “Right now. Close every other door. Tell me I’m not an option—I’m THE option. The only one.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because I wanted to say it. God, I wanted to say it. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with five years of fear and a marriage that had taught me my judgment couldn’t be trusted and the absolute terror of committing to something that might hurt me.
Marcus watched my silence. Nodded slowly, like he’d expected it.
