Because if I do, I might say something unprofessional. Something honest. Something likeI didn’t know someone could sound like that when they singorI don’t want to be another man who disappoints her.
None of those belong in an ERS file.
“So,” Tessa continues, all business again, “any concerns I should flag?”
“No,” I say. “No concerns.”
“Good,” Tessa replies. “We’ll keep monitoring. Call if you need us.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly.
The quiet rushes back in, heavier now. More aware of itself.
Lila turns then, eyes flicking to my face. “Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just a check-in.”
She nods too, like that answers something. Like it’s enough.
It isn’t.
But I don’t correct it.
Because the truth is sitting too close to the surface now, and I don’t trust myself not to let it show.
The kettle clicks off behind her.
The sound is small, domestic, but it snaps the quiet clean in half.
I clear my throat. “You okay?”
The question feels inadequate the second it leaves my mouth. Too broad. Too loaded. Too likely to make her lie.
She nods anyway. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
There it is.
The same word I used with Tessa.
I don’t push. I don’t tell her I heard her sing. I don’t tell her that her voice is still sitting in my chest like something unfinished. I don’t tell her that I can hear the difference betweenfineandsurviving.
I just watch her.
She stirs her tea. The spoon clicks softly against the mug. Once. Twice. A third time before she realizes what she’s doing and stills her hand.
Her shoulders are tense. Her jaw too tight.
Finally, she exhales through her nose, a short, frustrated sound. “I hate that my body does that.”
My chest tightens.
“Does what?”
She hesitates. Then shrugs, like she’s brushing lint off herself. “The spiral. The fainting. The whole thing.” Her mouth twists. “It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not.”
