Of course he noticed. “I’m not hungry.” That’s a lie. But the idea of sitting at that massive dining table again, or asking permission to use the kitchen, or anything else I could possibly do in this house like I’m pretending I belong here… I can’t
“Come on,” he says.
I finally glance over my shoulder. He’s already across the room.
“Where?” I ask.
“Outside.”
I hesitate but start moving anyway. Because inside feels worse.
The garden is different at dusk, softer and more subdued. The sharp edges of everything, from the stone to the structure to the perfection, blur under the fading sunlight. The air is cooler, carrying the faint scent of flowers.
Gravel crunches under our feet as we walk. Neither of us speaks right away. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s just heavy. I wrap my arms around myself, more out of habit than the cold.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he says after a minute.
I huff a small breath.
“That’s saying something.”
He almost smiles. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks.
I stop walking. I don’t know how to answer that. Whatisgoing on? Everything, nothing, and too much all at once.
“I had a call today,” I say instead.
He stops beside me. “Yeah?”
I nod, staring out at the line of trees ahead of us.
“Teenage girl,” I continue. “Collapsed, dehydration, and malnourished.” My throat tightens slightly. “She wouldn’t let go of my hand,” I add, remembering the feeling over her fingers in mine. “Like that was the worst part.” I finally look at him. “She wasn’t even scared of being hurt. She was scared of not knowing where she’d end up next.”
Something shifts in his expression, darkening his eyes. I recognize it because I’ve seen it before. At scenes and at hospitals. Helpless anger.
“I know that feeling,” I say. The words slip out before I can stop them.
He looks at me, sharper now. “What do you mean?”
I hesitate. “From foster care.”
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t soften me. Just listens.
“You don’t get attached,” I continue. “You don’t unpack all the way. Because you never know when you’re going to have to leave again. I stayed in the second home until graduation, nearly eleven years. But it still took me over two months to actually unpack there. I thought I’d get moved out of there soon enough anyway, just like the previous home.”
I shrug slightly. “After a while, it stops feeling temporary,” I add. “It just feels… expected.”
I don’t look at him this time, I don’t want to see his carefully curated reaction.
“Do you remember it?” I ask, looking only at the darkening sky.
“Kind of,” he says quietly, assuring me that my point has been made. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be.”
Because pity isn’t what I want. Understanding is. The way I felt then and now, aren’t very different.
We start walking again, slower and more deliberately. The path curves slightly, leading us deeper into the garden where the trees grow thicker and shadows stretch longer across the ground.
