The almost of him.
The rhythm.
How do I explain that sometimes losing a person isn’t just losing their body?
It’s losing the version of yourself that existed beside them.
I look down at the blanket gathered in my lap.
“He didn’t run back to her,” I whisper.
Drew’s nostrils flare.
“That’s your bar now?”
I lift my chin.
It shakes anyway.
“No.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The words land hard.
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
Because yes.
Maybe it would have.
He leans back slightly, just enough to look at me fully, and the frustration in him is bigger now, less hidden.
Not violent.
Not mean.
Something almost worse.
Helpless.
“You keep getting hurt,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you keep fighting for the wrong damn guy while running into my arms.”
That one goes in clean.
I laugh once, brokenly.
“Please don’t start.”
“Why?” His eyes lock on mine. “Because somebody in your life finally said it to your face?”
I stiffen.
He sees that too and immediately reins himself in, but not enough to take it back.
His hand comes up and catches lightly at my jaw, thumb brushing once under where tears dried sticky on my skin.
