And yet here I was, heart pounding like a teenager’s, replaying the way Ashton’s fingers had brushed mine, the way he’d looked at me like I was something worth wanting.Something worth choosing.
It terrified me.
And thrilled me.
And made me feel more alive than I had in years.
The countryside blurred past the window, green and gold streaks smearing into nothing.My reflection stared back at me — tired eyes, flushed cheeks, a man who looked like he’d been cracked open and didn’t know how to put himself back together.
Maybe I didn’t need to.
Maybe the version of me I’d been clinging to wasn’t the real one at all.
Maybe the real me was the one who’d laughed with Ashton over stolen biscuits, who’d danced under rainbow lights, who’d woken up tangled in someone else’s warmth and felt...right.
Maybe the real me had been waiting for permission.
And maybe — just maybe — I didn’t need anyone else’s permission anymore.
Not Mum’s.
Not Dave’s.
Not societies.
Not even Dad’s.
But God, I wished I could talk to him.
Tell him what I’d found.
Tell him what it meant.
Tell him I understood him now in a way I never had before.
Tell him I wasn’t angry.
Tell him I wasn’t ashamed.
Tell him I was trying — really trying — to be brave.
The train slowed as we approached the station.
My stomach tightened.
Dinner with Mum and Dave.Normal life.The version of me they expected.
But I wasn’t that man anymore.
Not after Ashton.
Not after last night.
Not after finally seeing myself clearly.
I wasn’t sure who I was becoming yet.
But for the first time, I wanted to find out.
