“You’re not bringing me.”
Not a question.
A statement.
I brace.
Because this is where old Sage would explode.
Accuse. Cry. Rage. Bargain.
Instead she just… deflates.
Like someone let the air out of her.
“I figured,” she whispers.
I stare at the fire.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say carefully. “Not right now.”
Not like this.
Not unfinished.
Not fragile.
Silence stretches.
Then I hear it.
A soft, broken sound.
I look over.
She’s crying.
Not dramatic.
Not shaking.
Just quiet tears slipping down her face like she doesn’t even have the energy to stop them.
“I broke us,” she says.
My chest tightens.
“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
Jesus.
I swallow.
She wipes her cheeks with the heel of her hand, embarrassed. Laughs once, small and ugly.
“I keep trying to fix it,” she says. “And it just… feels like every time I get close, you’re already halfway out the door.”
She looks at me like a kid who already knows the answer.
