“What?” I ask quietly.
She took a shaky breath. “How do I know this isn’t just you trying to fix something?” she asked.
“It is not.”
“You fix everything.”
“I am not fixing this.”
She shook her head. “I’m confused,” she admitted.
That word unsettles me. I hate this. Why do I keep getting it all wrong?
“About what?” I ask carefully.
“About what’s real,” she said. “About where I stand. About whether I’m falling in love with a man or being absorbed by one.”
The distinction sliced. I stepped back, giving her space.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I know I have feelings for you. I know I don’t want this to end. But I also don’t want to wake up one day and realize I disappeared inside your life.”
I let the silence stretch. Because this is not something I can purchase or restructure.
This required patience, and I am not accustomed to that.
“I do not want you to disappear,” I said finally. “I want you here. Fully.”
She looked at me like she wanted to believe that.
And for the first time since this argument began, I realized loving her may require me to relinquish the one tool I have always relied upon.
Control.
Perhaps I had misjudged everything.
Perhaps what felt inevitable to me did not feel inevitable to her.
The possibility settles heavily in my chest.
“Do you wish to proceed with the divorce?” I ask.
The question tastes wrong, but it was the only one that cuts cleanly through assumptions.
She blinked at me.
“No,” she says immediately. Then, “Yes.” Then she exhales sharply. “I don’t know.”
The uncertainty in her voice scraped at something raw inside of me.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, quieter now.
I held myself still. Explain it, I want to say. Help me understand.
“It’s the power dynamic,” she said. “You keep acting like this is simple. Like you can just . . . fix everything.”
“I can fix external threats,” I replied.
