I stop at a crosswalk, staring at the red hand blinking back at me, and feel the thought land fully formed for the first time:
I’m not scared of losing her.
I’m scared of what staying with her turns me into.
Why doesn’t she trust me?
That’s the part I can’t reconcile.
I’ve given her everything—time, honesty, access, reassurance. I stopped going out. I stopped seeing the guys as much. I started explaining myself for things that never needed explaining.
And still… this.
Tony’s birthday.
Fishing. The ocean. My people.
She knows how much that matters to me. She knows the water is where I breathe again. So why would she do this?
Unless—
My stomach tightens.
Unless this isn’t about the fishing trip at all.
Unless it’s about control.
Poker nights.
The bar after work.
The nights I didn’t tell her where I was because I just needed one fucking hour to exist without managing someone else’s emotions. And the extra sets I worked, crooning out the cracks she caused in my soul and letting them fly out into the starry night.
Is this how she gets even?
I exhale hard, dragging a hand through my hair.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I just know this?—
If I confront her now, she’ll cry.
She’ll apologize.
She’ll cook, touch, seduce, promise. Or worse—she’ll flip the fuck out and cause a nuclear scene.
And I’ll drown. Burn on the match she strikes.
I don’t make it back to the office.
I get halfway down the block and my legs just… quit.
Like somebody unplugged me.
There’s a bench outside a bank — green metal, sun-bleached, one of those city benches no one ever really uses — and I sit before I even realize I’ve decided to.
Elbows on my knees.
