I look at him again. Really look.
His posture is still formal. Knees bent, hands folded on one thigh. But there’s an intimacy in the way he holds still. Not to observe. Not to assess. Just to bewith.
He doesn’t fill the silence.
He lets me breathe.
“I hate this place,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“I hate that they made me doubt myself.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that you’re the only one who’s looked at me like I’m still whole.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
But he doesn’t need to.
I shift slightly on the bed, my knees brushing closer to the edge. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel him in my peripheral. My fingers twitch against the blanket. His stay motionless.
“You’re not like them,” I say.
“No.”
“You’re not like me either.”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
He finally breaks eye contact, just for a breath, then returns it.
“I am what I was made to be,” he says. “But I am choosing… something else.”
That’s the first time I’ve ever heard his voice waver.
I sit there, wrapped in silence that doesn’t feel hostile anymore. His body is still a statue beside me—shoulders squared, spine a ruler’s edge—but the edges aren’t so sharp now. Not to me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur, staring straight ahead.
There’s a pause. “Which one?”
“The important one.”
I turn to face him, legs drawn up again, one hand resting on my knee. My heart is slamming against my ribs. Not from fear. Not even from grief anymore. Just from the fact that he’s here and I’m here, and Iwant somethingI don’t even have a name for.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I say.
His eyes meet mine—solid and unflinching. That unblinking, unreadable calm.
“That’s wise,” he replies.
I almost laugh. “Not the answer I was hoping for.”
“I do not offer what cannot be secured.”
