Tonight it’s just after ten. Rain taps against the window. Jace is on the couch, laptop open, his face lit by the flicker of game footage. The same scene rewound, the same play replayed. I linger in the doorway, arms crossed, knowing this conversation’s been waiting for weeks.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” I ask.
He looks up, frown already forming. “What?”
“Sarah. You saw her.”
He exhales, slow. “Yeah. She came by the fieldhouse. Media orientation thing.”
“That all?”
“What do you want me to say, Sierra?” His voice is calm in the way that only makes it worse. “She works there. We crossed paths. That’s it.”
“You didn’t think I should know?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
I laugh, sharp, ugly. “You didn’t think it mattered that the woman you are in love with just walked back into your life?”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what’s going on. She works there, Sierra.”
“I don’t care where she works,” I shoot back. “I care how it feels. And it feels like you’ve been somewhere else for a long time now.”
He stands, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not exactly here either, Sierra. We’ve both been… keeping the peace.”
“That’s not peace, Jace. That’s pretending.”
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crack the floor. The dishwasher hums in the background, a quiet, mechanical heartbeat that fills the space between us.
“I’m tired,” he says finally. “Tired of you thinking there’s something I’m not saying.”
“And I’m tired of waiting for you to admit there is.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I think about every version of this fight we’ve almost had, all the swallowed words, the careful smiles, the slow fade from love to routine. This is just the part where we stop pretending not to notice.
“I’m sorry, Jace,” I whisper, because it’s true. “I think we were both just trying to save the wrong thing.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t reach for me. Just stands there, quiet, like he finally understands too.
I walk to the bedroom, grab my overnight bag from the closet, and start pulling clothes from drawers. It’s mechanical, fold, pack, zip. I check my reflection in the mirror, hair still damp from the earlier shower, eyes red but dry. There’s no breakdown left in me. Just resolve.
On the nightstand, my phone buzzes once before I even touch it—like it knows. I open Griff’s thread and type:
Me:You home?
Griff:Yeah. Why?
Me:Can I stay tonight?
Griff:Always. Everything okay?
Me:Not really. But it will be.
I slide the phone into my bag, take one last look around the room we built out of careful choices and quiet compromises. The kind of space that looks fine until you realize how empty it sounds.
At the door, I turn back once more. Jace hasn’t moved. His laptop’s still open, the light flickering across his face, but his eyes aren’t on it anymore.
“Maybe love isn’t about staying,” I say softly. “Maybe it’s knowing when you’ve already left.”
