But, for the first time in a long time, I let it sit there. Because maybe I need to stop hiding from it. Even if I’ll never be free of it.
I stay a while after she leaves, the quiet settling back into the room like a held breath.
“I took a coaching job,” I tell him, voice low, steady. “College program. Summer camp right now.”
I shift in the chair, rubbing my thumb absently over the back of his hand. Muscle memory. Habit.
“They’re good kids,” I go on. “Loud. Cocky. Think they’re indestructible.” My mouth quirks faintly. “You would’ve hated half of them. Loved the other half.”
I watch his face, waiting for something that never comes.
“It’s close,” I add. “The school. Close enough that I can still come see you without driving all night.” A pause. “That mattered to me.”
I swallow.
“I thought… maybe that meant I was doing the right thing. Staying near you. Staying anchored.” I exhale slowly. “But I don’t know if that’s what this is anymore.”
The words feel heavier now that they’re real.
“You’re still here,” I say quietly. “But you’re not—you.” I hate how blunt that sounds, but lying has never helped either of us. “And I think I’ve been pretending that if I just stayed the same, you might come back.”
I squeeze his hand, just once.
“That’s not fair to you,” I murmur. “Or to me.”
My gaze drops to the blanket tucked around his legs, the rise and fall of his chest. Alive. Breathing. And so impossibly far away.
“I loved you,” I say. No hesitation. No qualifiers. “I still do.”
The admission doesn’t break me the way it used to. It aches, yes—but it doesn’t hollow me out.
“But loving you doesn’t mean I stop living,” I continue. “It doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to want something—someone—again.”
My throat tightens.
“I think I’ve been punishing myself,” I admit. “Forsurviving. For still wanting. For feeling anything that isn’t grief.”
I brush my thumb over his knuckles again. Gentle. Careful.
“And maybe it’s time I stop,” I whisper. “Maybe it’s time I accept that who you were… isn’t coming back. And that doesn’t make what we had any less real.”
I sit back, staring at the far wall.
“It doesn’t mean I’m replacing you,” I add softly. “It just means I’m finally letting myself believe there’s room for something else.”
I look back at him then, wishing with everything I have that he never played injured, that I never let him play injured.
“For love,” I say. “Not guilt. Not a memory of what it feels like. Love.”
The room stays quiet. He doesn’t respond. But for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for him to.
I stay a little longer. Long enough to tuck the blanket back into place. Long enough to make sure his water is within reach. Then I stand, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
“I’ll be back,” I promise. And this time, it doesn’t feel like an apology.
The walk to my car is short, but it feels longer.
The late morning sun has crept higher, warming the pavement, blinding in a way that feels deliberate. Like even the sky’s sick of watching me rot.
