She grabs the remote and scrolls through the movies on a streaming app, deciding on an old slasher movie.
This feels painfully familiar.
When we were kids, Ella always insisted she wanted to watch horror movies. Ten minutes later, she’d be hiding behind a pillow, peeking through her fingers while I laughed at her.
I’d throw an arm around her and she’d immediately scoot closer.
So that’s what I do now.
She smiles up at me before turning her attention to the screen, the movie opening with a shrill scream as the villain brings a knife down on a helpless victim.
My mind isn’t on the movie, though, lost in thought of what I’m going to say to Ella when the credits roll. I suppose the right thing to do would have been to just tell her I need space right when I got here, but a part of me wants things to be like they used to be, before everything got so complicated in my life.
We stay mostly silent through the movie, me squirming more than Ella at certain points. She even called me a chicken when I had to turn my head during a particularly gruesome scene.
When I flip her off, she laughs so hard she nearly spits her milkshake across the room.
For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed.
A scream erupts from the television and I jump, earning a laugh from Ella.
“Looks like you’re not so tough anymore, huh?
“Bite me,” I mutter.
She nudges my shoulder and stands. “I’m getting another drink. Want one?”
“Sure.”
She smiles, then disappears into the kitchen.
I try to focus on the movie, but my attention keeps drifting to the clock on the mantle. Every passing minute knots my chest tighter.
I should just tell her.
The words are right there.
I open my mouth to silently rehearse what I want to say, but the words get tangled before they ever make it out. Instead, I stare at the television and let the movie fill the silence while my stomach churns.
A few minutes later, Ella returns with two cans of Coke.
“Your beverage, sir.”
I accept the can with a tight smile. “Thanks.”
She sits back onto the couch beside me, pulling the blanket over our laps again. “Anything for my favorite person.”
My stomach knots tighter as I take a sip of soda.
The movie continues, but neither of us seems particularly invested anymore. Every once in a while, I catch her staring at me, but she looks away just a second too late.
A dramatic song begins to play, the credits finally rolling. Relief and dread crash into me at the same time.
This is it.
I take another large gulp of my Coke, then set the can down on the coffee table and turn toward her.
“Uh, Ella?”
