But I never touched her. Not once.
I would never.
Even at my worst—even when everything in me was unraveling—that line was the only thing I never crossed.
She crossed it every time.
I know that now.
I stayed not because I loved her—not in the way that mattered—but because leaving would’ve meant admitting everything we built wasn’t real. And I needed it to be real. For Livy. For the picture I kept trying to frame just right. The perfect version of us that only ever existed in my head.
I stayed for something that didn’t exist.
“Sometimes you don’t stay for what it is,” I murmur. “You stay for what it almost becomes. For the version of them you keep hoping will show up one day.”
I exhale slowly, like the truth is something sharp I have to let out carefully. “But at some point… you have to stop fantasizing,” I add, and notice that she’s gone so still and turn to her again.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, like she’s seeing something new. “That’s... surprisingly deep.” She wipes away another tear.
I tap my temple with one finger. “Not just hockey up here.”
That earns me a small smile. Progress.
“I’ve been there you know,” I say. “With Mira. She was verbally and physically abusive.” And just like that, I told her. I’m surprised I did. I never did. It was a secret I kept to myself for years.
“I’m sorry, Colton.” And that’s when she touchesmyhand. I put my other hand above hers.
“It’s not about me today. It was long ago.”
“But all of this. I’m so sorry you saw it and…” She sniffs and there’s another sob. “I don’t usually...”
Without thinking, I do what I would do for Livy. I open my arm, offering comfort without demanding it. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
To my surprise, she moves into the space I’ve created, nestling against my side like she belongs there. Her head finds the hollow of my shoulder, and I carefully bring my arm around her, light as a feather, ready to withdraw if she stiffens.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she cries harder, her tears soaking through my shirt. I hold her, saying nothing, just being solid when she needs something to lean on. My hand finds her hair, smoothing it gently.
“I work so hard,” she whispers against my chest. “At everything. My job. On our home. This relationship. And he just... takes.”
“Some people only know how to take,” I say softly. “It’s not your failing.”
We sit like this for minutes, maybe longer. Time feels strange. Her breathing gradually steadies; her body relaxes. I can smell her shampoo—something clean and simple, not the overpowering perfumes Mira used to wear.
“’”The moment is interrupted by the buzz of a phone. Then another. And another.
Jenna sighs and reaches for her phone on the bedside table. “It’s him.”
I resist the urge to take the phone and throw it across the room. Not my place. Not my decision.
She reads the messages, her expression hardening with each one. “He’s threatening to come back with the police if I don’t let him in.”
“He won’t,” I say. “He’s a coward, believe me. Also, he cheated on you, not the other way around. He’d be stupid.”
Another buzz from the phone. She looks down at it, then back at me. “I need to end this. Officially. Over text is terrible, but I can’t face him right now.”
“I’ll stay if you want or go if you want.”
