Chapter Twenty-Two | Quiet Confessions
This wasn’t the first time he made me cry.
A reminder—he cuts deeper than he thinks.
I sat curled up on the bathroom floor, back against the wall, knees pulled tight to my chest. Small. Still. I didn’t know where this would go. Only that I never wanted to end up on this side of him. Not again.
Because when things got hard, he walked. He always did. Quietly. Without warning or closure. He left me in the wake of silence once before, and I was terrified he’d do it again. But I’d never admit that. Not to him. Maybe not even to myself.
My heart, once so full just moments ago, now felt like it was shrinking in on itself. How did I go from breathless joy to this aching kind of devastation?
Why was it so hard to be honest with him?
Why couldn’t I just say what I really wanted—that I wanted him in my life in a way that wasn’t platonic, wasn’t undefined, wasn’t so… empty? Curiously hoping that maybe, one day, it would happen. Even years down the road.
And then he asked. What would it be like?
And I ran. Because the only thing more terrifying than rejection was hope.
There was a soft knock at the door.
I flinched.
I stood quickly, turning toward the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy and red. No. I wouldn’t let him see me like this. I never had. Not really. He’d never seen the aftermath—not fully. Always my back. Always my silence.
I wiped my face, collected myself. I was good at recovery. Always had been. Not just with him, but with the whole damn world.
Another knock.
“Yeah! Sorry, I’m unlocking it,” I said, voice light, breezy—like nothing had happened.
I opened the door just wide enough to slip past him, never quite meeting his eyes. He entered the bathroom. I walked wordlessly back to the room and crawled into the opposite bed.
The shower turned on.
I listened to the water run. Let it drown out the sound of my thoughts. Part of me wanted to climb in with him, kiss the anger away. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Maybe next time. If there was a next time.
I lay facing the wall. My back to him, again.
Familiar, but heavier tonight. Like this was the first time he’d truly seen me turned away and understood what it meant.
When he came out, he didn’t say anything. I felt him pause in the doorway, like he was trying to decide something. I kept still. Breathing slow. Pretending sleep.
Maybe I should go home. Maybe this was the last night. I didn’t want to be here like this—with everything unresolved, tension wrapped tight between us like sheets we’d never find our way out of.
He never said what he really wanted. Maybe he thought I’d take it too seriously. Maybe he didn’t know. I just wanted clarity. Vulnerability. Something real.
I closed my eyes.
The mattress dipped.
He was climbing into my bed.
My breath caught—just for a moment.
He slid closer, slipping his left arm beneath my neck, drawing me back against his chest. His right arm wrapped around me, grounding me. Quietly. Gently.
A single tear fell from my eye, slid across my cheek, and landed on the crook of his arm.
I wiped it quickly, pretending it wasn’t there. Then let my hand rest over his bicep, trailing my fingers lightly down to his hand.
“I’m not doing this with you,” he whispered.
I didn’t respond. I knew exactly what he meant. It wasn’t our journey, it was the anger. I didn’t want to argue. None of what I’d say was meant to start a fight.
My fingers moved again, tracing slow circles into his palm. He took my hand—held it—and this time, laced our fingers. Not playful. Not for show. Something quieter. More intimate.
I turned slightly, curling closer. My hand moved to the back of his neck, then his jaw. My thumb passed over his lips.
My mouth was just a breath from his, but I didn’t kiss him. I let the moment stretch.
“You want to know what it’s like?” I whispered.
And for once, we both let our walls down.
We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t need to.
The night softened around us, quiet again. And when sleep finally came, we were tangled in each other—sharing a bed neither of us had started in.
The kind of closeness that said everything we hadn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Three | This Morning, Still Ours
