I close my eyes against her shoulder, the thought crashing through me uninvited—
I miss my mom.
I miss the way her hugs made everything feel survivable. The way she saw me without trying to mold me into something else. The way she loved me without conditions or contracts or expectations.
Since she died, everyone has wanted something from me.
My father wanted obedience. My stepmother wanted control. Elliott wanted ownership. The world wanted me to fit neatly into a role that made sense to them.
So I ran.
I ran to Chicago. I ran from expectations. I ran from anyone who looked at me like they thought they knew what was best for me.
But Langston…
He didn’t ask me to be smaller. He didn’t tell me to stop dreaming. He didn’t even demand that I stay. He just offered to stand beside me. And I pushed him away anyway. Because maybe the truth is this:
I’m not scared he’s trying to control me. I’m scared that if I let him love me, and I choose him back… I won’t know who I am without my defenses.
Mabel’s hand rubs slow circles into my back, grounding me.
“Sometimes,” she says softly, like she’s speaking from a place older than both of us, “it’s hard to realize that someone might stay when everyone else that we have loved, has left..”
I inhale shakily.
And for the first time since he walked out of that kitchen, I let myself admit the thought I’ve been running from all along.
I wake up to quiet.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that feels unfinished.
For a moment, I lie there staring at the ceiling, the events of last night crashing back into me in slow, heavy waves. The kitchen. His words. The way he walked away. The way I let him.
I went to bed alone.
I remember lying on my side, listening for footsteps that never came. Wondering if he’d stay in his office. Or one of the many guest rooms down the hall. Wondering if he was awake too—or if he’d already locked himself back behind walls I couldn’t reach.
I finally give up on sleep and push out of bed.
The hallway is dim, early morning light filtering in through tall windows. The house feels too still, like it’s holding its breath.
I step out of the bedroom and nearly trip.
Something solid is directly in front of the door.
I gasp, jerking back—and then I see him.
Langston.
Lying on the floor.
A small blanket pulled up to his waist. A pillow tucked beneath his head. His broad frame stretched awkwardly across the hallway like he dropped there and never bothered to move.
My heart stutters.
“What—” I whisper, then stop myself, afraid to wake him too harshly.
I say his name instead. “Langston.”
