“That’s not what this is.”
Her breath catches just slightly before she steadies it, and that small break matters more than anything she’s said.
“Then what is it?”
I don’t soften it.
I don’t filter it.
“It’s you.”
The words land between us without structure, without calculation, and the fact that they aren’t controlled makes them heavier.
Her expression doesn’t break, and that uncertainty hits harder than rejection would have.
“I don’t—” she starts, then stops, and the hesitation is worse than any answer she could have given.
“You don’t what?”
Her gaze shifts, not away, but deeper, like she’s trying to find something she can say without losing control of it.
“I don’t know what you want me to do with that.”
That isn’t rejection.
But it isn’t acceptance either.
“You don’t feel it.”
The words come out sharper than I intend, and I can see the immediate reaction in the tightening of her jaw.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you didn’t say.”
“I said I don’t know what to do with it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is if I can’t afford to respond the way you want.”
The words land wrong, not because they’re false, but because they’re measured, calculated, contained in a way that this shouldn’t be.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Everything here is.”
“No, this isn’t.”
“It has to be.”
“For you.”
The silence stretches, heavier now, the hum of the base pressing in around it like pressure building under a sealed surface.
“You’re misreading this.”
“No, I’m not.”
