He snorts. “You Vakutans are so dramatic. She’s probably scared, not cruel.”
“She lied,” I growl.
“She panicked.”
“She told me it wasn’t mine.”
“And you believed her?”
My jaw clenches hard enough to pop. “Didn’t need to. Iknew.But hearing her say it felt like being gutted with a dull blade.”
“Then why didn’t you call her on it?”
“Because I wanted her to tell mewithout being cornered.I wanted to be chosen.”
He pours another drink. “That’s your problem. You want everything to be a war you win. Sometimes love ain’t about victory, brother. Sometimes it’s just about standing still long enough to be seen.”
“Spare me the philosophy,” I mutter.
But the words stick. Like burrs in my thoughts.
Standing still long enough to be seen.
I keep thinking about the list.
Not the one I left her.
The one Ididn’twrite.
The list of things I was afraid to say…and never said.
I just left a list and walked out like I was being deployed again.
Coward.
One night, I sit at the edge of the canyon.
The same one I showed her once. The wind’s slicing cold. Carries the scent of metal and distant ozone from a nearby transport yard.
I stare down into the dark.
It’s the kind of place you can lose yourself in.
Or find something else entirely.
I feel her in the wind. Not like a memory—like apresence.
And I wonder if she’s out there, pacing her apartment, holding our son, wondering if I’d still come back if she just opened the door.
I wonder if she’s thinking about that kiss in the storage room. About the way I said her name like it was holy.
I wonder if she’shurting.
Because I am.
Every hour.
Every second.
