When I’m done, I don’t send it.
I read it once more, then save the file and close it without naming it. I don’t trust myself with easy access.
If I reach for her now, it will be to relieve myself of discomfort—not to give her anything she needs.
That’s the line.
I finally see it.
At lunch, Alex texts.
Alex:
You still alive?
I don’t answer right away.
When I do, it’s brief.
Me: Yes.
A minute later:
Alex: You okay?
I stare at the word.
No would be accurate.
Fine would be dishonest.
Me: I’m learning.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Alex: That might be the worst sentence you’ve ever sent.
I almost smile.
Almost.
The rest of the day passes without incident. No sightings. No collisions. No moments that beg to be misread as fate.
That matters too.
At five-thirty, I shut down my computer and sit there longer than necessary, hands folded, office dimming around me as the floor empties.
This is what consequence looks like, I think.
Not punishment.
Not exile.
Restraint.
I leave through the garage instead of the lobby. Old habit. Still useful.
At home, the place feels unchanged. Clean. Ordered. Quiet.
