She tilted her phone, showing a news alert on the screen. John Lockhart donates to reopen late wife’s orphanage. There were photos of me, of course. Me walking away. Me glaring. Headlines like Family Feud at Charity Event.
I exhaled sharply. “Yeah. Him.”
She studied my face for a long moment—too long—and then she reached out, small fingers brushing against my wrist. Just one touch. And I swear, it felt like the whole day collapsed right there.
I didn’t even mean to, but I leaned into it. Her touch. Her silence. Her quiet presence.
She didn’t ask anything else.
Just took Honey back into her arms, sitting back down where she originally was before. And I just stood there for a while, pretending to look for something to say, pretending not to notice how my pulse eased the longer she sat there.
She wasn’t doing anything special.
Just… existing.
And somehow, that was enough to make it quiet again.
I finally moved closer, lowering myself onto the other end of the couch. She glanced at me, unsure whether she should say something, but didn’t. The kitten purred between us, its small, steady breaths louder than the air conditioning.
I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
She looked up immediately. I rubbed the back of my neck, forcing the words out before I chickened out.
“Tomorrow,” I said quietly. “New Year’s Eve.” Her brows drew together, waiting. I took a breath. “You should come over.”
She tilted her head.
“For dinner,” I added quickly. “Stay until midnight. Watch the fireworks from the balcony, maybe. It’s a nice view up here.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then tilted her head as if to askwhy?
I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were still tense, the veins in my wrist faintly raised. I flexed them once before answering.
“Because…” I stopped. It sounded pathetic in my head, but I said it anyway. “Because it’s too loud up here.” I tapped my temple lightly. “Always is. And when it gets that loud, I—” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just need to quiet it down.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“It’s not pity,” I added quickly, eyes locking on hers. “I’m not asking because I feel sorry for myself. I just…I don’t want to be alone when the year changes. Not this one.”
For a long moment, she didn’t respond.
Just sat there, hugging Honey closer, gaze soft but unreadable.
Then she nodded. Slowly.
And something in my chest loosened, like air finally filling lungs that had been crushed for years.
“Alright,” I said quietly, trying not to sound too relieved. “Dinner. Fireworks. You, me, and the furball.”
She smiled barely, but it was there. Small. Real.
I could live off that for the rest of the year.
She then stood up, placing Honey in my arm and walked towards the door again, with me absentmindedly following behind.
Aurora turned around to face me, leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the kitten’s head.
“Bye, Honey,” she whispered, barely audible, but I caught it. Her voice was still shaky from her mutism, soft and uncertain, but hearing it at all… God. It did something to me every single time.
