Chapter Ten | He Meant To (His Perspective)
I meant to text her.
Really, I did.
Even as I sat with a few old friends at a dimly lit bar, laughter bouncing off the walls like none of us had changed, I kept checking my phone. The screen stayed blank. Her name stayed unsent. My thumb hovered over the keyboard more times than I wanted to admit.
But every time I went to say something, I backed out.
What was I even supposed to say?
Thanks for the ride? Sorry I didn’t hug you right? Sorry I didn’t follow you when you left the hotel?
I didn’t know what version of myself she was waiting for. Hell, I didn’t even know what version of myself I was willing to show. All I knew was being around her stirred up something inside me I didn’t have the language for.
When I saw her at the airport—God, she looked good. Familiar. Nervous. Hopeful in that quiet way she probably thought she hid well. But she never did.
It killed me a little, watching her try to keep it together.
And it killed me more that I didn’t reach for her the way she wanted me to. That I didn’t say the things she needed to hear. That I kept it all behind my teeth, like if I just swallowed it long enough, the feelings would disappear.
But they never do.
They just sit there. Heavy. Loud. Unspoken.
Back at the hotel, after she left, I sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like an hour. Still wearing my jacket. Still holding onto the echo of her perfume. I didn’t turn the TV on. Didn’t scroll. Just sat there.
Thinking about her laugh. Her voice. The way she always tried to play it cool, even when her eyes gave her away.
She wanted more from me. I knew that. And part of me wanted to give it to her.
But I didn’t know how.
I wasn’t good at showing up in the ways that mattered. Not for her. Not for anyone. I always found a way to disappear before it got too close, too complicated, too real. I wasn’t proud of that. I just didn’t know another way.
And now, here I am. Sitting in a hotel room in her city, checking my phone every twenty minutes and pretending I’m not hoping she’ll text first.
But she doesn’t.
And somehow, that makes me feel worse.
Like maybe this time… she finally believes me.
Believes I didn’t mean it.
Believes that this—whatever it is between us—is only real for her.
I turn my phone face down on the nightstand.
I meant to text her.
I still might.
Maybe in the morning.
Maybe when I figure out how to say something without breaking the thing I don’t want to admit I need.
