"I said things to him."
"To Caleb."
"Yes."
"Bad things?"
"Accurate things."
"That is not what I asked."
I laugh once. It sounds like something broken finding humor offensive.
"Yes," I say. "Bad things."
"Did he deserve them?"
The answer is immediate. That is how I know it is true.
"No."
Dana breathes out softly.
"He built the process to protect me," I say. "And I used it like he built a cage."
"Why?"
Because someone else said my name before I did. Because a stranger with a voicemail took the statement I had not released and turned it into a deadline. Because I spent fourteen seasons believing the silence was a locked door and then discovered the lock had been decorative for years. Because Caleb was in front of me and I knew he would not defend himself by hurting me back.
"Because he was there," I say.
"That's honest."
"It's ugly."
"Most honest things are not groomed first."
I press my fingers against my eyes.
"What do I do?"
"You know."
"I hate when people say that."
"I know."
"Dana."
"You go back," she says.
The sentence is simple. Offensive.
"What if he doesn't open the door?"
"Then you stand there and learn what waiting feels like from the other side."
I do not answer.
