Because if she’s really changed?—
If this is actually who she is now?—
Then leaving her would make me the villain.
Not the survivor.
One night, by the fire, she falls asleep sitting up.
Head tipped against the couch.
Breathing slow.
Peaceful.
I throw a blanket over her shoulders and just stand there watching her for a minute.
Trying to figure it out.
Who she is.
Who I am with her.
Whether love is supposed to feel like this?—
Or if I’m just getting used to the quiet before another storm.
My guitar rests against the chair beside me.
The fire pops.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees.
And I realize, with this heavy, sinking clarity?—
I’m right on the edge.
One step forward and she’s back in my life for real.
One step back and she’s gone for good.
And I don’t know which one scares me more.
Snow comes down like ash.
Soft. Quiet. Constant.
The kind that makes the whole world feel smaller.
Muted.
Forgiven.
I string white lights along the porch rail one afternoon, hands numb, breath fogging in front of me. Nothing big. Nothing festive. Just enough to keep the place from looking abandoned.
Inside, I drag a small tree from the hardware store into the corner of the living room.
Three feet tall.
