Jamie shook her head. “Savannah doesn’t regret wanting someone. She regrets wanting them too much.”
Tilly didn’t argue. They didn’t know how to.
“She left her glove,” Tilly said instead.
Jamie glanced at the pocket, then back at Tilly. “Then give her space. Don’t corner her. Don’t make this worse by forcing a conversation she’s not ready to have.”
“And if she never is?”
Jamie’s expression softened. “Then you’ll still know you didn’t push.”
That landed heavier than anything else she’d said.
Tilly nodded once.
Outside, the cold hit hard and clean. The wind cut across the parking lot, sharp enough to make their eyes water. Tilly stood there for a moment, breath fogging, gloves heavy in their pocket.
They could call her. Could text. Could say something messy and real and immediate.
They didn’t.
Instead, they got in their car and sat with the engine off, hands resting on the steering wheel. The day stretched ahead of them, quiet and unresolved.
The drive home passed in a blur of gray streets and melting snowbanks. Tilly didn’t turn on the radio. The silence felt easier than music that might accidentally say something true.
By the time they pulled into their apartment complex, the sky had dimmed into that flat, early-evening light that made the day feel unfinished. They sat in the car for a moment, keys still in the ignition, watching their breath fog the windshield.
Eventually, they grabbed their bag and headed inside.
The hallway smelled like all-purpose cleaner and old carpet. Someone’s door slammed two floors up. A TV murmured behind a neighboring wall. Normal apartment noise. Other lives, stacked close and uninterested.
Tilly unlocked their door and stepped inside.
The apartment was quiet in the particular way it always was when they were alone. Shoes by the door. Their jacket hung onthe hook instead of being tossed over a chair. Camera bag set down neatly beside the couch, where it wouldn’t be tripped over later. Nothing had moved since morning. No sign that the day had reached in and rearranged anything.
Tilly stood there longer than necessary, then reached into their jacket pocket and pulled out Savannah’s gloves.
They set them on the small kitchen counter.
The gloves looked out of place in the compact space. Too soft. Too familiar. Tilly stared at them like they might explain something if given enough time.
They didn’t.
Tilly filled the kettle and set it on the stove out of habit, then leaned back against the counter while it heated. The sound of the water rising was steady, predictable. Something they could trust.
When the kettle clicked off, they poured the water and wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into their palms. It grounded them more than they expected.
They checked their phone.
No new messages.
They set it face down on the counter without answering the urge to flip it back over.
The apartment settled around them. Pipes ticking somewhere in the walls. Footsteps passing in the hallway outside. A neighbor’s laughter drifted faintly through the ceiling. Life continuing, close enough to hear but not close enough to touch.
Tilly folded the glove once and slid it into the drawer beneath the counter. They’d give it back. Soon. She’d notice it was missing.
They leaned their forehead briefly against the cabinet door and closed their eyes.
