The moment she let go of my hand, I felt it.
The shift.
The cold.
Like the thread tying us together had stretched too far to see, but still tugged somewhere under my ribs.
Her mother didn't raise her voice. Didn't accuse.
She didn't have to.
Sometimes disappointment is sharper than anger.
I walked home in silence.
No music. No distractions.
Just the sound of my boots against the pavement and the slow, heavy rhythm of my heartbeat.
I hated waiting.
Not because I was impatient I've lived my life waiting.
Waiting to be noticed.
Waiting to be understood.
Waiting to be enough.
But waiting for her?
That was different.
Because this time, there was something I couldn't protect her from.
I couldn't hold her hand through that conversation.
Couldn't stand between her and whatever her mother might say.
All I could do was sit with the silence and hope it didn't break her.
At home, my mother was in the kitchen.
She looked up when I came in. "Hey. Late night?"
I shrugged. "A little."
She paused. "Was it Rose?"
I nodded.
My mom hesitated for a moment, then leaned on the counter.
"You're different around her."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Softer," she said. "Happier."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"I saw the post," she added, voice gentle. "It's going around."
I tensed. "Do you care?"
She smiled faintly. "Only if someone hurts you."
I looked down at my hands. "I think I'm the one hurting tonight."
I stayed up for hours.
Staring at my phone.
Rewriting the same message a hundred times.
I didn't want to crowd her.
Didn't want to seem afraid.
Didn't want to beg.
But I missed her like a bruise misses pressure like something tender that still wants to be touched.
And then, finally, the screen lit up.
Rose:
> I think I will be.
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't say no.
I think that's a beginning.
I stared at the message, breathing in like it was the first time I'd had air all night.
And then I typed:
Kellie:
> I'm proud of you.
Come here when you're ready.
I'll leave the light on.