I try to stop it.
I can’t.
Luke just looks at me.
I should stop there.I know I should.
I don’t.
I double down, voice too casual to be innocent.‘So?Would you be fine with that?Me getting a hysterectomy?’
His brows draw together, slow.‘I mean … it’s your body.I wouldn’t stop you.I’d want to talk about it, sure, but it’s not—’
‘Not what?’I interrupt.‘Not something you’d resent me for later?’
He’s quiet, eyes searching mine, trying to read what page I’ve flipped to in the script.
That’s the thing about good people; they always try to understand.But I don’t want understanding.I want proof.
I want him to flinch.To panic.To break.
Because if he breaks, it means I was right.It means this was always going to fall apart, and I’ll be able to say,See?Told you so.
‘I need to know,’ I say, pushing the words through tight lips.‘If I draw the line here, are you going to push back?Or are you going to walk away quietly like everyone else does when I show them the real version of me?’
I hear how unhinged I sound, but I can’t stop.I’m not mad at him.I’m mad at how safe I felt in his arms last night, at how dangerously good it was.That’s the real betrayal: letting myself want something secure when my family needs me back home.
Luke says something – I think it’s my name – but it’s distant.Muffled.
Suddenly, I’m not in a farmhouse kitchen anymore.
I’m ten years old, sitting on our house’s front steps in a pink tutu and scuffed tap shoes, watching the driveway as if it’s a finish line.Issy’s inside watching cartoons.Mum’s in the kitchen pretending she’s not disappointed.
He said he’d be here.
He said he’d come.
The sun’s going down, and the car never pulls into the drive.
Cut to twelve.Fourteen.Seventeen.Birthdays.Dance recitals.School awards.Every year, a new version of the same lie:He’ll make it up to you.He wanted to be here.Next time, I promise.
And every time, I became the messenger.The fixer.The soft cushion between my little sister and the sharp edges of our father’s failure.I lied so Issy wouldn’t be hurt.I smiled so Mum wouldn’t break down.I swallowed it all so our family wouldn’t fall apart.
Until I got tired of waiting.Until I learnt the safest way to avoid disappointment was to never expect anything at all.
I built a home out of that shell, decorated the walls with self- reliance and clever quips and an instinct to leave before I get left.
Glancing at the window over Luke’s shoulder, I find my reflection staring back at me: messy hair, faded shirt, his coffee mug still clutched in my hand.
I’m not someone who belongs here.
I’m someone who’s playing house in borrowed clothes when there are people back home who rely on me.And the longer I stay, the more it’s going to hurt when it ends.
Because good things don’t last.
Not for girls like me.
‘I can’t do this,’ I say, and it sounds too sharp, as if I’ve shattered the illusion.
