Even if tonight ends with nothing. Even if I drive home alone at midnight and eat cereal over the sink. I do not want to stand here holding a ribbon meant for people looking for someone new.
I know who I want to be with.
The decision feels nothing like bravery. It feels like standing on a floor I am not entirely sure will hold me, waiting to find out.
The music shifts, something slower bleeding in under the brass, and a few couples drift toward the center of the room like they have been waiting for permission. I watch them arrange themselves into each other’s arms with the ease of people who have already done the hard work of deciding.
Then George looks up.
Not a scan of the room, not a casual glance. A direct look, aimed with the precision of someone who has known exactly where I am standing the entire time.
My breath goes somewhere completely unhelpful.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. He just looks at me. I should glance away after half a second. I am almost certain I mean to.
Two seconds pass. Maybe three. The distance between us feels enormous and simultaneously beside the point, like an argument about weather when the house is on fire.
Then someone touches his shoulder, and the moment folds shut, quiet and complete as a book closing in another room.
I exhale.
I will stay. Just a little longer. As long as I can bear it.
