“I know enough.”
That gets his attention. His gaze lifts, sharper now.
“Do you,” he says.
I hold it. Don’t soften it.
Because the truth is, I do.
Not in a way I can explain.
Not in a way that would make sense if I tried.
But I saw him. The way he sits just slightly outside of everything even when he’s in it. The way he listens like it matters. The way he pulls back just before something becomes too real.
And I know exactly what that looks like.
He’s leaving.
That’s the part I can explain.
In a few days, he’s gone. Different country, different life, whatever this could be cut off before it even starts.
I don’t want that.
I don’t even know whatthisis yet, but I know I don’t want it ending here, in a pub, with a conversation that never gets the chance to become anything else.
So I asked.
And now he’s deciding.
“I’m leaving on Wednesday,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to argue with that and can’t quite find the words.
There’s a long pause.
I don’t fill it.
Don’t push.
This only works if he steps into it himself.
And there’s a part of me—quiet, controlled, but there—that knows he might not.
That he might stand up, shake his head, walk out, and I’ll never see him again.
That should be enough to pull me back.
It isn’t.
“Fine,” he says.
Just that and my heart starts beating faster.
The impact is instant, clean and merciless.
