I don’t realize how tense I am until he lets out a slow breath.
“Good,” he says. “God, it’s good to see you.”
I shift a little, tucking my knees up and adjusting the blanket across my lap. “You too.”
He watches me for a moment, like I might disappear if he blinks. His gaze roves over my face slowly, like he’s assessing what has changed in his absence. My hair’s pulled back, there are shadows beneath my eyes, and I keep shifting the phone in my hands like I don’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it in the way he looks at me—how much he wants to reach through the screen and hold me.
“You look tired,” he says finally.
“It’s been a long day.”
He says nothing, but there’s something in his eyes—like every part of him is aching to make it easier and hating that he can’t. I glance away because I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze.
The phone shifts a little as I adjust my grip, and I realize too late that I’ve tilted it enough to show the couch—the blanket, the pillow, the dim outline of the living room behind me.
His expression shifts and the air stills between us. His eyes darken, his jaw ticks once before he speaks.
“Is that where you’re sleeping?”
I try to smile but it feels feeble at best. “It’s fine. My brother is using my room. I’ll just be here for a few nights anyway.”
Again, he doesn’t answer immediately. I hear him take a deep breath, trying to collect himself.
“You promised me you’d take care of yourself,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s no mistaking the sadness behind it. He’s hurt on my behalf.
“I am,” I say, but it sounds like a lie even to me.
He exhales slowly. “This is not what taking care of yourself looks like.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say that would make this look any better.
It’s not the couch that he sees. It’s the way I’ve folded myself into a corner of it like I belong there. To him, it’s a rupture. To me, it’s just another day in my old life. I’ve spent most of my life squeezing into spaces where I don’t fit.
I shift the blanket in my lap just to have something to do with my hands.
“I don’t want you to worry,” I say quietly. “I know this isn’t ideal, but it’s familiar. I’ve made it through worse.”
His jaw works again. Then his voice drops, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to me. “I hate that you ever had to learn to live like this. You deserve so much more.”
“I’m okay,” I say gently, even though we both know that’s not quite true. I shift the phone and try for a smile again. “You should try to sleep.”
His mouth curves wistfully. “You always say that when you’re about to disappear on me.”
“I’m not,” I reply, sheepish. “I just want you to get some rest.”
A beat passes. He nods slowly. “Okay.” But the word lands like resignation.
I take in his handsome face one last time. I miss him so fiercely in that moment I almost say it again. But instead, I reach for something safer.
“Goodnight, my love.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “Goodnight, baby.”
Neither of us moves to end the call.
The silence stretches, neither willing to be the first to let go.
So, I do.
