“So just… reassure her,” Za continues. “Firmly. Don’t leave space for her to spiral. She’ll come around.”
There’s no bitterness in it.
“You’re telling me to fight for her?” I ask quietly.
“I’m telling you,” she begins, “if you’re going to do this, then do it properly.”
She gives me one last look.
We don’t hug.
We don’t shake hands.
We just stand there for a second longer than necessary, the distance between us filled with everything unsaid.
Then she walks up the street.
I don’t follow.
Nothing is fixed.
Nothing is fully broken either.
And that’s worse.
twenty-nine
fairs.
Frankie.
I don’t hearhim come in, not at first.
A cold mugof tea I keep forgetting exists is my only companion. That and my phone as I doom scroll.
Then I hear the door open with a soft click. Shoes kicked off without care. Then heavy steps trail into the living room with familiarity, even though I’ve spent the last five days acting like the idea of him belonging anywhere near my life is a joke.
“Francine?” His voice carries casually.
I don’t answer immediately. I make myself finish typing one last code that I’m not even going to keep.
Then I close my laptop.
“In here,” I call.
He appears in the doorway with the same hoodie on from the night before. He’s holding a paper bag from the corner shop like he’s coming to deliver peace offerings to a hostile nation.
He looks… good.
“So you’re alive,” I say.
“You are too,” he adds, eyes scanning me like he’s checking for damage.
“Barely,” I reply. “How did it go?”
He steps into the room and drops the bag on the table with a soft thud. “I spoke to Za.”
My whole body tightens so fast it’s embarrassing.
