She paused, let the words settle.
“Say it messy. Say it too soon or too late or in the wrong tone of voice. Say it even if your hands shake and your pulse is loud enough to drown out the room. Say it because the alternative—another month, another year, another lifetime ofalmost—is heavier than any rejection could ever be.”
Her gaze finally lifted—not to me, not yet, but to some middle distance, like she was speaking to the whole dark stretch of Sweetbriar and everyone still awake in it.
“And if you’re honest and the person on the other end hears you and steps toward you instead of away—don’t be surprised if it feels ordinary at first. Not fireworks. Not a movie score crescendo. Just two people who’ve been circling, finally closing the circle. Quiet is okay as long as it’s real.”
She exhaled, long and slow, the sound almost a laugh at herself.
“So that’s my advice tonight, Sweetbriar. Not just for me. For you too.”
She reached for the laptop, fingers steady now.
“Be the one who stops waiting for permission to be brave. Be the one who says the thing, even when the silence feels safer. Because on the other side of the scary part—there might just be someone who’s been waiting to hear it.”
She paused for a beat.
“Goodnight,” she said, softer than before, the words carrying a private weight only two people in the room would fully understand. “And goodnight to the rest of you. Keep showing up. Even when it’s hard.”
Her finger hovered.
Then she pressed stop.
The red light went dark.
She didn’t move right away. Just sat there, breathing, cheeks still flushed, the smallest smile lingering like she’d surprised even herself.
Only then did she turn her head and look at me, where I’d been sitting beside her the whole time.
Her eyes were bright. Relieved. A little dazed. “Hey,” she whispered.
I reached over, covered her hand with mine. “Hey,” I said back.
And for once, neither of us needed any more words.
I saw it—all of it. The hope she’d been trying to manage. The fear underneath it. The bravery of someone who had just said something true in front of witnesses and was waiting to find out what it cost her.
“You were talking about me,” I said. My voice cracked on the last word, just barely.
“Yes.”
I set my glass down and leaned forward, closing some of the distance between us without closing all of it. Giving her room to decide. “You’re not scared anymore,” I said. Not a question.
She considered it. “I’m still scared,” she said. “I just decided I want you anyway.”
Something inside my chest turned over completely.
I reached for her hand across the table. She let me take it.
“Becca.” My voice stayed soft, steady, even though my heart was anything but calm. “I’ve seen all of you, Becca, for years. Every time your laugh came too quick to hide something aching. Every time you said ‘I’m fine’ when the word felt heavy in your mouth. Every time you stood so tall and alone, carrying everything like it was nothing, when I could see how much it weighed. Since we were little kids, I’ve seen you.”
I held her eyes, gentle but unflinching. “I’m not searching for the places you keep hidden. I already know them. I’ve known them the whole time. And I’m still right here, because I want to be. Because it’s you.”
Her breath hitched. She looked down for a second, lashes wet, then back up at me with eyes that were suddenly brighter, softer. “That…” she whispered, voice trembling just enough to crack the quiet. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I gave the smallest smile, the kind that only comes out for her. “It’s just the truth.”
She stood slowly, one hand reaching out like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch me yet, her fingers hovering near my sleeve as if testing whether this kind of safety was real.
