“I don’t want to replace her,” she says.
“You couldn’t,” I utter.
“I know.” Silence breathes between us.
“You don’t scare easily,” I finally say.
“I’m not scared of love.”
“That’s naïve.” I chuckle.
“Or brave.”
I exhale sharply. “You don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone like that.”
“No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”
There’s no defensiveness. Just honesty.
“But I understand what it’s like to stay stuck because you’re afraid to move forward.”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t know that either.”
“Maybe not exactly,” she says. “But I know what grief does when you don’t let it breathe.”
She steps closer. Close enough that the warmth of her body brushes mine.
“You can love her,” she says quietly. “And still want me.”
That’s the problem. I do. God, I do.
My hand lifts before I think better of it, fingers sliding into her hair at the nape of her neck.
She inhales sharply.
“You don’t get to say things like that lightly,” I murmur.
“I’m not.” Her hand settles against my chest. Right over the place she tapped earlier. “You’re allowed to live,” she says.
The fire took so much. It took laughter out of these walls. It took ease. It took certainty. And for nine years, I let it take whatever it wanted.
Because wanting anything felt disloyal.
“You look at me like you’re trying to memorize me,” she whispers.
“Maybe I am.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers. “You don’t have to choose between past and future,” she says. “They can exist together.”
I study her face.
“You’re not jealous,” I say slowly.
“Of a woman who loved you?” she asks. “Why would I be?”
“Most would.”
“I’m not most.”
