The building is quiet. No cars, no doormen, no light in the lobby. I take the stairs, not the elevator, because it feels less like I’m being delivered and more like I’m making a choice.
I get to his floor.
I stand there, heart in my throat, staring at the door. I almost knock, but I don’t trust myself not to break down and say all the wrong things.
So I slide the letter under his door, the four pages curling in slow motion, and walk away before I can change my mind.
By the time I get back to my car, my shirt is wet with sweat and my hands smell like ink.
I sit behind the wheel, not starting the engine, and just breathe.
I don’t know what comes next. For once, I don’t care.
I did the thing.
Now it’s his move.
———
When the text comes in, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the pop of blue ink smeared on my wrist. The clock says 6:44 AM, but I haven’t slept. I watch the phone for a long time before picking it up.
“Can we meet? The bench.”
Just that. No punctuation, no “please,” no hint of how much is riding on it.
I dress in the first clothes I find, jeans from the floor, hoodie from the chair, shoes without socks.
I walk out into the cold without checking the mirror, the four-day stubble and red-rimmed eyes a badge of what I’ve been through.
The city is dead at this hour. The only movement is the wind, and the joggers who can’t wait for sunrise to punish themselves.
Elliott Bay is a mirror, flat and black, the sky above it a gradient of gunmetal to bruised purple.
The bench is at the far end of the path, its wood slick with dew, the metal arms cold to the touch. Darius is already there, hunched in a bomber jacket, the hood up, hands jammed in the pockets.
He looks like hell.
Not in the tired way, but the way a statue looks after someone’s tried to smash it and failed.
He’s holding the letter, the pages folded and refolded, creased to the point of transparency.
He looks up as I approach, and for the first time in weeks, he meets my eyes and doesn’t look away.
I stand in front of him, heart running wind sprints. My hands want to stuff themselves in my pockets, but I force them to hang at my sides.
He taps the letter against his knee, the corners tattered, then says: “I read it. All of it.”
His voice is low, rougher than I remember.
“Didn’t think you’d answer,” I say, because deflection is still the only thing I know.
He shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d write.”
The silence drags. I sit down on the bench next to him, careful to leave a space between our legs. The wood creaks under the weight.
He unfolds the top page, hands shaking just a little. “I fucked up,” he says. “I have to say it out loud, or it doesn’t count.”
I want to make a joke, but my throat is locked.
