Eventually she exhales and pulls away.
“I lied to you,” she says suddenly.
My chest tightens.
“I’m not perfect. I’m not some super strong alpha woman in killer wedges.”
“You kinda are?—”
She shakes her head, a small, broken smile flickering and dying fast. “No. I pretend to be. I’m good at pretending.”
That lands harder than I expect.
She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, like she’s embarrassed by the evidence of herself. The porch light throws soft gold over her skin, over the bones of her shoulders pulled tight like armor.
“I don’t usually do this,” she says. “I don’t… need people like this.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve learned—fast—that Sage doesn’t need fixing. She needs space to tell the truth.
“I was fine when you left,” she continues. “I told myself I was fine. You were just out with the guys. Normal. Healthy. Not a big deal.” Her voice wobbles. “But then it got late. And then later. And I kept thinking, don’t call him, don’t be that girl.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “And then my brain did that thing.”
I know that thing. The spiral. The quiet terror that doesn’t look like panic until it’s already swallowed you whole.
“I started thinking about how easy it is for people to leave,” she says. “How they always say they’ll be back. And sometimes they are. And sometimes you wake up and the house is empty.”
Something sharp twists behind my ribs.
She stares at her hands now, fingers picking at an invisible thread. “My dad left first. Just… gone. No goodbye. No explanation that made sense to a kid.” She swallows. “And then my mom—she was there, but not really. She loved me, I think. In her way. But she loved parties more. Loved not being alone.”
Her voice drops, almost a whisper. “She’d tuck me in, kiss my forehead, tell me to be a good girl. And I’d fall asleep thinking she was in the next room.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
“And I’d wake up and the house would be dark. Empty. Quiet in that loud way. Music thumping somewhere down the block, people yelling, dogs barking. And I’d call for her. I’d cry and cry until my throat hurt.”
I stop breathing.
“Sometimes I’d grab my blankets and my stuffies and hide in the closet,” she says, like she’s describing the weather. “It felt smaller. Safer. Like if I took up less space, nothing bad could find me.”
She stops, swiping a tear.
“I never knew which nights she’d stay,” she goes on. “Or which mornings she’d stumble back in smelling like booze and weed, barely awake. Sometimes she wouldn’t make breakfast. Sometimes she wouldn’t pack my lunch. Sometimes I’d walk to the bus by myself.”
She looks up at me then, eyes glassy but fierce. “I was eight, Ethan. Eight. And it went on for years.”
My chest aches. Full. Cracked open.
“And I grew up,” she says quickly, like she’s afraid of lingering there. “I learned to be independent. I learned not to need anyone. I learned to be impressive and capable and fine.”
She huffs out a humorless laugh. “But when I sleep with you… when I fall asleep next to you…”
Her voice breaks.
“I know you’re going to stay all night,” she says. “I know when I wake up, you’ll still be there. And it makes me feel safe in a way I don’t know how to turn off.”
She wipes at her cheeks, frustrated now. “And that scares me. Because needing someone like that feels dangerous.”
