Curious.
Not demanding. Not impatient. Not trying to fix me or fast-forward me through something painful.
Just wanting to understand the man she’s sharing her Sundays with.
“I’m not there yet,” I say quietly. “With them.”
She nods. “That’s okay.”
Something in my chest tugs uncomfortably.
“I don’t want to watch you carry everything alone,” she adds. “Not because I think you’re doing it wrong. Because I know what it’s like.”
My gaze drops tothe floor.
“I spent a long time pretending I was fine,” she continues. “That it was easier not to touch certain memories. But they don’t really go away. They get louder when you’re tired.”
I glance at her then. She isn’t talking about my parents. She’s talking about grief.
And she isn’t asking me to confront it. She’s telling me she recognizes it.
“I’m not asking you to open that door for me,” she says softly. “You get to decide when and how.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction.
“I wanted to know if you’d ever thought about it,” she finishes. “That’s all.”
I nod slowly.
“I have,” I admit. “More lately than I used to.”
Her lips curve into a small, understanding smile. “That makes sense.”
We sit quietly again, the earlier warmth returning in small increments, cautious but present.
She reaches for my hand this time, her fingers sliding into mine, like she’s asking permission without words.
I let her. The contact steadies me more than I expected.
“I’m sorry I snapped,” I say. “That wasn’t fair to you.”
She squeezes my hand once. “Thank you for saying that.”
I study her face, the calm in her expression, the lack of expectation.
It strikes me how different this is from every other woman who’s been in my life.
No games. No ultimatums. No emotional bargaining.
Just honesty and patience.
My phone buzzes again on the table.
Aubrey.
This time, Melissa glances at it and then back at me without comment.
The choice sits there between us.
