"You just got away from him, Nora," Nate says carefully. "From all of that."
"I know."
"Then why go back?"
Because like you, I built something there. Because I'm terrified of losing everything I worked for.
"I don't really have a choice," I say softly.
"That's bullshit. You always have a choice."
His eyes darken and I don't know why, but it hurts.
"So what," he continues, and he's trying to keep calm, "you go back to LA, to the place that's been slowly draining you, and then what? Spend the next six months in pre-production meetings with a man who cheated on you and tried to manipulate you into staying and will probably continue to do so?"
"I'm not going back to him," I say. "I'm going back for me. For the career I worked my ass off to get."
His laugh is quiet. Bitter.
"So, where does that leave us?"
I don't answer, because I don't know.
Because the hurt in his voice is triggering something in me—old patterns, old fears. The feeling of being trapped between what I want and what I've built. The panic that rises when I feel like I'm being asked to choose, even when he's not explicitly asking.
I recognize this spiral. The one where his pain becomes myguilt becomes my defensiveness becomes us hurting each other without meaning to.
"I need to see this through, Nate." I say, though my voice is rising, fear making it sharp. "I have nothing here."
The words are out before I can stop them.
"Nothing?" He says it so quietly, but the hurt in his eyes is deafening.
And I realize—I just fucked up.
Catastrophically.
"No, I—I didn't mean it like that."
But the damage is done.
I can see it in the way his expression shutters. In the way he takes a small step back, putting distance between us.
"Right," he says, and his voice is so carefully neutral it breaks my heart. "You have nothing here."
"Nate, that's not what I meant?—"
"What did you mean then?" He's not yelling. Not angry. Just deflated. "Because it sounded like you just said that this—us, last night, everything—is nothing."
"That's not?—"
"I told you I loved you." His voice cracks on the words. "For the first time in seven years, I told you I loved you. And now you're telling me you have nothing here."
Tears burn behind my eyes. "I didn't mean you. I meant I don't have a job here, I don't have an apartment, I don't have?—"
“You said you have nothing here. And I'm standing right in front of you."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
