Outside, the street is quiet, slick from last night’s rain. Everything looks muted—buildings softened by low cloud cover, light flattened and undecided. The sun exists somewhere above it all, but it hasn’t committed yet.
I wrap both hands around the mug and let the heat sink into my palms.
This is the truth I keep returning to:
He didn’t lie to me.
He let me believe.
He believed intention could outweigh omission. That choosing me after mattered more than what he did before. That I would understand if he explained.
But explanation would require me to accept that timing doesn’t matter.
That my trust is flexible.
That I can be folded around his discomfort.
I take a careful sip. It’s hot enough to slow me down.
I didn’t cry last night.
I didn’t confront him in that room.
Didn’t demand answers.
Didn’t ask for an apology.
Not because I didn’t feel it.
Because I knew exactly what I needed.
Distance.
I glance at my phone again.
More messages have come in—small check-ins, heart emojis, offers of brunch or distraction or righteous anger.
I answer a few.
Alex gets Thank you. I’m okay. I appreciate you.
Mark gets I might take you up on that silence later.
Jamie gets You did more than you know.
I don’t unblock Derek.
Instead I pull the load of laundry out. It's there on top—no longer white. Soft pink now, the dye uneven, the edges still intact.
It doesn’t ruin it.
It just changes it.
I hold it up, evaluate it the way I do everything else these days. No nostalgia. No ache. Just information.
“Okay,” I murmur.
I fold it and put it in the drawer.
