“Congratulations,” I say again, softer this time.
He looks at me for a second. Long enough for my pulse to accelerate, for my throat to tighten around the unsaid.
I nod, because anything else would cost more than I’m willing to spend.
I step out of the car. He waits until I’m clear of the door before pulling away.
I watch the taillights disappear down the street, surprised, not by what I feel, but by what I don’t.
No rush.
No ache.
No need to pull myself back together.
Just the quiet understanding that something has shifted, not toward him, exactly, but away from fear.
I don’t forgive him. I’m not ready for that. Maybe I never will be.
But I can breathe in the same room now. I can watch him choose restraint and respect it. I can notice the steel blue of his voice has violet at the edges—vulnerability he didn’t show before—without it meaning anything more than observation.
That’s not nothing.
It’s not everything either.
39
SYSTEM INTEGRITY (WREN)
The next day, he doesn’t text. That’s what surprises me.
Not because I wanted him to. I didn’t, or at least I don’t think I did. But after yesterday’s lunch, after the quiet car ride and the way he looked at me when I said Romania, I expected something. A follow-up. A casual check-in wrapped in politeness.
Nothing.
I wake up early out of habit, my body calibrated to deadlines and alarms even though the semester is winding down. I shower, dress, make coffee, and sit at my desk revising a paragraph that doesn’t need it.
My phone stays face down.
I check it anyway.
Nothing.
I tell myself it’s good. It’s what restraint looks like. It’s what I needed.
And I believe it, mostly.
By midmorning, campus has shifted into its post-graduation lull. Families are gone. Folding chairs have vanishedfrom the courtyard. The air feels lighter, like the place has exhaled.
I cross the quad to return a library book and realize, halfway there, that I’m not scanning for him. Not bracing for an encounter.
No mental rehearsal. No calculation of escape routes. No instinctive tightening at the thought of running into him between buildings.
The want is still there. Quiet. Persistent. Especially after yesterday. Want to see him. Want to know if the violet in his voice was real or just me projecting.
But it doesn’t pull at me. It doesn’t set the pace or demand attention. It sits there, contained.
That’s new.
