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Neither do I.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like, right?
Smooth.
Light.
No sharp edges.
No history.
No ghosts.
Halfway through dinner, she tilts her head, studying me.
“You’re trying.”
I pause.
“What?”
“With me.”
She says it like it’s not an accusation.
Just… truth.
I lean back slightly.
“Is that a problem?”
Her lips curve.
“No,” she says softly. “I like it.”
Then, quieter?—
“I just wanna make sure I’m not a distraction.”
That hits.
Because that’s exactly what she started as.
And now?—
I’m not sure what she is.
“You’re not,” I say.
Not a lie.
Not fully the truth either.
Dessert comes.
We share it.
One spoon.
