She does not crack. She doesn’t soften. “You ghosted me.”
Her words slice the air. She doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t blink.
“I couldn’t?—”
She cuts me off, voice low, hurt. “Couldn’t what? Survive? Couldn’t write? Couldn’t give a damn?”
I swallow, throat tight. I reach across the bar. My fingers hover. She steps back.
The patrons notice. Eyes flick. Murmurs rise.
I drop my hand. “I came back.”
“Yeah?” she says. “Why?”
The question yanks me. I search for the truth. Or a lie that sounds close.
“Because I owe you.”
She snorts. “You owe me silence?”
I take a breath. “I owe you every word I didn’t speak.”
She stares. Bar light glints off her eyes—hard, unreadable.
Somebody calls out. A cadet. I hear the name. A memory. A corner of my heart flinches.
She tenses. “Don’t make this a war crime, Troka.”
I lean close, voice quiet. “I don’t want war. I want you.”
For one heartbeat—I swear—her face softens.
Then she turns. Walks away. “Don’t follow me.”
I don’t move.
She disappears behind a swinging door. I set my drink aside and go after her.
Back hallway. Storage closet. We used that room once. My boots echo. My heart echoes.
She’s there—just shadow and shape.
“Don’t ask me to forgive silence,” she says, voice flat.
“I don’t want forgiveness. I want a chance.”
She shakes her head. “You missed it.”
But she doesn’t slam a door. Doesn’t tell me to leave. Just lingers in hurt.
I step closer. “Let me try.”
She looks at me then, really sees me—flaws, scars, doubt.
Then the bartender calls out for a spill cleanup. The moment fractures. She steps back.
I swallow. “I’ll wait.”
