The way my fingers used to check it twice. Three times. Even when I knew it was already secured.
I think of the quiet in the hallway at night. The heaviness in the air. The way the house held its breath like it was waiting for something else to happen.
I think of my mother—sharp, impatient, exhausted by grief she didn’t want to carry. Exhausted by the way it ruined the picture of us she’d spent years arranging.
I think of Drew, small and quiet, watching me like I was the only thing left in the world that made sense.
And then it clicks. The night my father died, the house went quiet in a way that never lifted.
The sound wasn’t what stayed with me. It was the aftermath. The stillness. The before-and-after line carved into our lives.
My mother needed things to look fine. She needed schedules, routines, and performance.
And I learned what happened when you let emotion be in the open.
Emotion was dangerous.
Love meant responsibility.
Responsibility meant vigilance.
Because if you didn’t watch closely enough, someone slipped away. And you were left standing in a quiet house, staring at a door that would never open again.
My throat tightens.
The last time I loved something this easily, it ended in a body bag.
I flinch at the thought.
Even though I loved responsibility, I still failed.
My hand drags over my face.
This is what Ivy doesn’t understand. Because I’ve never told her.
I don’t fear commitment. I fear being trusted and failing anyway. I fear her looking at me like I’m her safe place… and finding out I’m not enough.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs.
Attachment isn’t the danger. Complacency is.
And she makes me want to believe the world won’t take her.
My phone is still pressed to my ear.
Ivy is still there. Waiting.
I take a breath and try to step out of the control I live inside.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel small,” I say quietly.
Her answer comes faster than I expected. “You did.”
The simple truth slices clean.
I close my eyes. I’ve neutralized corporate disasters with less fallout than this conversation.
“I don’t think you’re weak,” I say. “That’s not what this is.”
