“I’m not punishing myself.” The words are out before I can process the lie.
“Then what the fuck are you doing? Sitting in an empty apartment, refusing to see the woman who’s been waiting for you to remember her for fucking years? That’s not protecting her, V. That’s protecting yourself.”
Another knife. Another slice. Another wound I’m responsible for.
“She can’t heal with me there,” I say quietly, the admission laying me bare. I’m weaker than any of us knew. “Every time she looks at me, she’ll remember what I did. She’ll remember that I’m the reason she grew up needing safety measures and steel-enforced doors.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for her,” he says, anger tipping each word.
“I’m not making a choice,” I say flatly. “I’m giving her space to think, to recover, to come to terms with the lies she’s beenrunning from. I owe her the respect of time to process without pressure.”
I turn the snow globe upside down, then twist the little knob. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” plays from a tiny speaker.
Happiness. We’ve all been searching for it our entire lives.
“It’s not fucking pressure if she wants to speak with you,” he yells. But his words hit a brick wall because I can’t take my eyes off this little glass ball in my hand.
He’s quiet for a long time, and when he speaks, his voice is softer. “She’s downstairs trying to figure out how to reach you, and you’re in Charlotte, convincing yourself that pushing her away is the noble thing to do.” He curses, and it sounds like he hits something—a wall, maybe. “Think about who that actually serves, Valen. Her? Or your guilt?”
The call cuts out, and when I press on the screen, I find the battery’s dead.
I stare at this snow globe that’s sat on my shelf all these years, then at my computer screen, knowing that I have cases I could get lost in, but thinking about my work makes me feel like a fraud. The only person I want to save is the one I left in a sleepy little town with no boundaries.
I left because I didn’t know who I was anymore.
I ran because I don’t know how to move forward if she rejects who I’ve become.
Instead of letting her in—instead of trusting her to stand in the wreckage with me—I gave her…space.
I left her alone.
I deserted her—just like Terra always said I would.
The thought makes me sick.
I didn’t choose her. I didn’t even choose us.
I chose myself dressed up as protection, as sacrifice, as a noble self-removal. But the truth is simpler and uglier.
I was scared.
Clover was strong enough to tell me about her walls. Why she built them and how they kept her safe, but all they really succeeded in doing was keeping her alone, separated from those who truly love her.
The life I’ve built wasn’t about doing good in the world. I chose to live this way so I wouldn’t have to dig into why a cold, sterile space felt safer to me than the warm, inviting, family home I grew up in.
I saw this apartment as security. I looked at my empty life and called it focus.
But I’ve always been a scared little boy at my core.
I place the snow globe on my desk, then drop my head into my palms as the weight of my decisions crushes my lungs.
After facing the truth of us, Clover isn’t the one who ran. She stayed. She reached for me.
I’m the idiot who pulled away.
What kind of protector does that?
What kind of man?
