“Out of state,” she adds. Not unkind. Not probing. Just factual.
I nod once.
A spa, I realize—not because anyone says it, but because it’s the most Audra thing I can imagine. Somewhere quiet. Deliberate. Chosen. A place designed for rest instead of explanation.
She didn’t disappear.
She stepped away.
Jamie doesn’t linger. She doesn’t offer commentary. She doesn’t tell me what she thinks of the choice, or of me.
She just leaves.
The door closes softly behind her.
Something in my chest tightens—not panic, not jealousy. Understanding.
She didn’t need to stay and be strong in familiar places.
She didn’t need to prove she was fine by being visible.
She chose distance because it was hers to choose.
I open a document I don’t name.
The cursor blinks.
I don’t start with an apology. I know better than that now. Apologies that arrive before understanding are just another form of control.
Instead, I write what’s true.
I went out Sunday night because I was afraid of wanting you.
I told myself it didn’t matter because it didn’t mean anything to me.
I stop.
Delete the last sentence.
That still centers me.
I try again.
I let you believe you were stepping into something clean.
I didn’t correct that belief.
I benefited from your trust without earning it.
That stays.
I don’t soften the language. I don’t contextualize it withintention or confusion or fear. None of that belongs in the first telling.
I write until my hands stop shaking.
Not pages.
Just enough.
