Or am I only noticing these things now because I’m desperately searching for explanations behind Cece’s unraveling?
I brace my hands against the marble sink and stare at my reflection for a long moment. And all I see is a man slowly realizing he may have failed the person he claims to love—in more ways than he can count.
A few minutes later, I head back toward the living room.
The atmosphere has changed completely.
Earlier, Vi’s voice filled the room brightly. Easy and animated. Now a softer, measured cadence has taken over.
I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but I can see the effect of it all over Cece’s face. That agonizing restraint. Like she’s fighting herself not to let too much emotion show.
And that’s when it happens.
My entire body locks up, fingers growing cold as my gaze catches on one tiny movement that feels horrifyingly familiar.
Cece lifts a trembling hand and lightly pinches the hem of Vi’s t-shirt between her fingers. The gesture is so small that most people would never notice it.
But,God, I do.
Before I can fully process it, Vi immediately covers Cece’s hand with hers and pulls her into a tight hug. Cece folds into her instantly.
Not the hesitant, exhausted half-embrace she’s been giving me for days.
No. She clings to Vi like she’s anchoring herself to something solid.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Because that tiny tug—that small pull of fabric—feels familiar in a way that nearly knocks the air out of me. It feels like a signal I’ve experienced. A signal she designed for herself to get a hug when words wouldn’t come.
A memory from before wrecks my entire nervous system.
‘…my therapist says I also have an avoidant attachment style. It makes certain relationship things… complicated for me.’
This wasn’t complicated. This was forged into our relationship. I know it. Because I can feel a phantom pull of the fabric of whatever I’m wearing. My mind is unraveling rapidly, dragging memory after memory to the surface.
A light pull on the cuff of my sleeve.
The hem of my shirt.
The waistband of my sweatpants.
My suit jacket.
Oh God. My suit jacket.
My stomach drops violently.
That night, when Cece froze inside herself while I stood there, too angry, too blind, too consumed with my own hurt to see what was happening right in front of me. When her sensory overload had her sobbing in my arms for a fraction of a second before she shoved me out the door.
I felt it then. I remember feeling it.
Did I hug her then?
Fuck, I don’t think I did.
But more than the ghost of that tug, I’m now sinking beneath the realization that she has stopped doing it. Or at least she doesn’t expect it from me.Why would she?
That night, when I failed to respond to it, was probably the last time she ever trusted me with it. Somewhere along the way, I unknowingly taught her it wasn’t safe to use it with me anymore.
