For the fact that I was too much of a coward to tell him the truth.
That I love him.
That I've probably loved him since he showed up covered in mud with that ridiculous crate and looked at me like I was the most capable person in the world.
That I'm terrified of losing him and terrified of keeping him and mostly just terrified because I don't know how to do this.
How to let someone matter this much.
The wind picks up. My tears are cold on my cheeks.
I should go inside. Should be practical and sensible and all the things I'm meant to be.
But I stay on the roof. Watching Grath's lit window.
Wishing I was brave enough to cross the distance between us.
Morning comes toofast and not fast enough.
I don't sleep. Just sit on the roof until the sky starts to lighten, then drag myself downstairs.
The café is still empty. Still too quiet.
I make coffee on autopilot. Burn another piece of toast. Stare at my phone like it might spontaneously produce answers.
I check my phone for what must be the dozenth time in the past hour. The screen is depressingly blank, no missed calls, no text messages, no notifications of any kind. Nothing from Grath. Not even one of those awkward, earnest messages he sometimes sends where he uses too many periods or accidentally types in all caps because he forgets where the shift key is.
I don't know what I expected. He gave me space because I asked for it. That's who he is as blunt and honest and stupidly respectful of boundaries even when it costs him.
I set the phone down with more force than necessary, then immediately pick it back up again. Check the café's security camera feed. The alley behind the building is empty, just shadows and the orange glow of the streetlight. No small grayshape padding into view. No telltale flash of green eyes in the darkness.
No sign of Pebble anywhere.
I've scrolled through the footage from the past six hours three times now, frame by frame, looking for any hint of movement that might be him. But there's nothing. Just rats and the occasional stray plastic bag skittering across the pavement in the wind.
Nothing.
The word sits heavy on me, sharper than it should be. Nothing means no progress. No answers. No way forward. Just me and my cold coffee and the oppressive silence of an empty café that should be full of life.
I'm on my second cup of coffee when the realization hits.
I've been waiting. Waiting for Grath to come back. Waiting for Pebble to appear. Waiting for someone else to fix this.
But that's not who I am. Not really. Not at my core, beneath all the anxiety and the lists and the desperate need to control every variable.
I don't wait for rescue. I've never waited for rescue. That's not the pattern I learned growing up, not the survival skill I honed when I had to be the responsible one, the adult in the room before I was old enough to understand what that cost me.
I fix things.
That's what I do. That's what I've always done. I fix broken espresso machines and crumbling business plans and cats with clipped ears and trust issues. I fix other people's problems while my own pile up like dirty dishes in a sink I'm too exhausted to face.
So I'm going to fix this.
All of it. Every mess I've made, every mistake I've compounded by trying to handle it alone. The missing kitten.The sabotaged petition. The man I pushed away because I was too terrified to let him see how badly I was breaking.
I'm going to fix it, or I'm going to break trying.
I grab my jacket. My keys. The notebook where I've been sketching half-formed plans.
