But the word dies in my throat.
Something stops me.
Something that has been growing in the quiet, fed by every shift I worked and every dollar I saved. The something that walked through the café door. The something that sat on the floor of Maeve’s office and let itself be held.
I straighten. “No.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Small. Ordinary. But it is the most powerful word I have ever spoken.
Julian blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who has been struck by a blow he did not see coming. “No?”
“I don’t want to go,” I state. “And I don’t like the ocean.”
He stares, bewildered. “What are you talking about? Of course you do.”
The certainty in his voice is staggering. He is not asking. He is telling. He has decided what I like and do not like, and my own words cannot change his mind.
“No,” I repeat, my voice steady. “Youlove the ocean.”
I remember all the times he returned from coastal business trips, his face lit up, talking about the waves and the sand. His voice was always so full of life—the kind I have never had, the kind that comes from a throat that never learned to swallow its own words. He told me about the colours of the water, the tasteof the salt, how the sound of the waves made him feel small in the best way.
He just assumed I shared his passion. He never once stopped to ask.
His expression shifts—a flicker of confusion, then something darker, more wounded.
I see the shift. The tightening of the jaw. The narrowing of eyes. The flare of the nostrils. I know what comes next. I have always known what comes next.
My entire body locks into a state of high alert.
I brace for the impact.
For the shout.
For the sudden, terrifying lash of temper.
My shoulders curve. My chin drops. My body remembers what my mind has been trying to forget—thatnois a dangerous word. Thatnoinvites punishment. Thatnois the spark that ignites the fire.
Julian draws a sharp breath.
I flinch. Just slightly.
Then he releases it in a long, defeated sigh. His shoulders drop. The hardness in his eyes softens, replaced by something that looks like exhaustion. “Okay,” he says, the word soft, almost lost. “I’ll cancel the tickets. We can… figure out somewhere else you’d like to go.”
The relief is so potent it feels like a physical drain.
My legs tremble. The adrenaline that was flooding my system begins to recede, leaving behind a hollow, shaky exhaustion. I lock my knees. I hold myself upright. I do not let him see the tremor.
I keep my face calm and give a single, slow nod. “Alright.”
His footsteps fade down the hallway. I stay standing there, gripping the counter until my fingertips turn white.
The next day, after he leaves for work, I don’t wait twenty minutes.
There is no need to wait. There is no need to be careful. There is no need to stand at the kitchen table, counting the seconds, listening for the sound of his car circling back.
I go to the bedroom.
I retrieve the bag I bought and packed myself. Just my things. My jeans. My sweaters. My work shoes. The small, ordinary objects that belong to the woman I am becoming.
