He’s someone who sees the parts of me I don’t explain and lets them stay untouched. Someone who sits beside me without filling the space, without turning it into something I have to navigate or survive.
That’s where he exists. That’s all he’s ever been.
The room rushes back in all at once.
The scrape of a chair cuts through too loudly. The clink of cutlery lands harder than it should. Laughter spills out from the kitchen, bright and sharp, grating against a nerve inside me that’s suddenly too aware.
Everything feels closer.
Tooclose.
My skin feels too aware of everything. The air. The table. The space beside me.
The question sits there, unanswered, stretching out, waiting.
I can feel it pressing in from every side, asking for something—anything.
But there’s nothing to give.
“That’s enough,” Maeve says, voice low but carrying a clear edge.
Myra looks at her, eyes wide. “What? It’s just a—”
“No,” Maeve cuts in. “It’s not.” She reaches over, taps Myra’s shoulder. “Go help Dad with the dessert.”
Myra opens her mouth to argue, hesitates, then sighs, and slides out of her chair. “Fine.”
She disappears into the kitchen.
I’m staring at my plate, the pattern of the china swimming slightly. The pattern is blue flowers on white. I have seen it a hundred times. Tonight, it blurs and shifts, refusing to stay still.
“That wasn’t okay,” Maeve says softly.
I nod, even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to. It takes a second before I look up. “Is it… like that?” I ask. The words feel awkward, too big. “Does it seem like I’m… doing something?”
“No,” she says immediately.
Relief moves through me too fast, too sharp. My shoulders drop. My breath comes easier.
“It’s not you,” she continues. “It’s him.”
I blink. “What?”
Maeve leans back. Her full attention settles on me. Her expression softens—a familiar sign that she is picking her next words with care.
“He watches where you are in a room,” she says. “Not in a way that draws attention. It’s… subtle. But it’s there. His eyes find you first, every time he walks in.”
A knot pulls tight behind my ribs.
“He changes things,” she continues, quieter now, more certain. “Where he stands. Where he sits. He leaves space before you even ask for it. If you shift, he shifts. If someone gets too close, he notices before you do. It’s instinct for him at this point.”
Images flicker through my mind—moments I didn’t register then, small adjustments I never questioned.
“He pays attention to you in a way most people don’t. And when you talk…” She pauses, then smiles. “Even when it’s just a few words, even when you stop halfway—he doesn’t fill it. He waits. He waits foryou.”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t mean—”
“I know,” she says gently, cutting me off. “I’m not saying it means anything you have to act on. I’m not saying it changes anything for you.”
