Page 107 of Never After Us
After we hang up, I step onto the balcony to breathe air that doesn’t smell like dust and memories.
The city stretches wide, familiar and indifferent.This view reminds me how small I am.
The door slides open behind me, and I know it’s him before he speaks.
“You know,” Alec says, voice low, “if you were going to dig through Lina’s journals, you could’ve come to me.”
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Maybe I should even tell him that he’s trespassing and start locking my door—even when it drives me crazy to be locked away.
I don’t want him here.He’s too much in moments like this.Not because he tries to fix anything, but because he doesn’t.He just stands there and lets me feel like I’m not alone.But he’s going to leave, and I hate that feeling.The feeling of loss.
“She cried on me last night,” I murmur, even though I didn’t mean to say anything at all.“Not Lina.Mila.She had a nightmare.Came looking for her frog—and asked for you.”
Alec doesn’t speak, but I feel the air shift slightly behind me, like he’s bracing for something I haven’t said yet.
“This morning, she knocked on your door first,” I add quietly.“She wanted to see what you two were going to fix for breakfast.”
I finally turn around, eyes locking with his.“And you didn’t answer.”
His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t defend himself.Doesn’t offer a reason.
Just lets the guilt sit there between us, silent and undeniable.
“It’s better this way,” I say, even though my chest aches from the effort of pretending I believe it.“She’s a kid.I’m her mom.We don’t need anyone else orbiting our lives just to disappear later.”
“I wasn’t trying to disappear.”
“Then what were you doing?”
He breathes in through his nose, like he’s trying to find the words that won’t make everything worse.“Trying not to make a mistake.”
The longing between us stretches taut.My throat tightens.
“You think showing up is a mistake?”I ask.“Because it didn’t feel like one when she hugged you like you were already family.Or when you made her French toast and let her pick songs like you actually cared.”
“I do care,” he says, voice suddenly raw.“I fucking care so much and ...that’s the problem.”
The air between us stills.
I don’t know what to say to that.Not when caring is what always leads to the goodbye.
So instead, I say nothing.
And he just stands there, closer than he should be, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of soap and old vinyl and whatever he does that makes him linger in my memory long after he’s left.
“Do you want me to leave?”he asks, and there’s something in his voice—uncertain, careful.Something he’s not used to letting out.
“I don’t know what I want,” I whisper.“Except maybe not to cry over people who left their hearts in journals or will leave because no one chooses to stay.”
He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t leave.
And that silence—his silence—cuts deeper than anything he could have said.It meets me where I’m unraveling, quiet and unintrusive, and somehow that is worse.Because it makes space for thoughts I don’t want.Hope I don’t trust.Longing I have no business feeling.
It makes me wish, and I’m too old to believe in wishes.
