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I lean back in the chair.

Me: Yes.

A minute passes.

Then: It’s easier this way, isn’t it?

I read that twice. I know what she means before I ask, but I ask anyway because I want her to say it in whatever language she’s using tonight.

Me: Easier what way?

The dots take longer this time.

Then: Pretending you’re not real. Or what happened isn’t. It’s less dangerous.

That sits in my chest like a hand.

Because she’s right. Pretending she isn’t real would be safer. Pretending this is all just a terrible professional mistake and not the thing that has followed me through eighty-one hours of work and landed beside me in every quiet second, yes, that would be safer.

It also hasn’t worked.

Me: Has that worked for you?

Her answer comes back immediately.

Maggie: No.

I close my eyes once.

Me: Me neither.

There’s a pause.

Then: That’s inconvenient.

Me: Yes.

Maggie: You always say yes like you’re filing a report.

Me: Occupational hazard.

Her next message takes longer.

Maggie: I’m tired.

That one hits harder than it should. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it isn’t. Because I can hear her in it—worn out, stretched thin, still texting me anyway.

Me: Then sleep.

A minute later: You first.

I look around the apartment. The open email I was pretending not to use as an escape route. The dishes in the sink. The order I’ve spent years building around myself like it can substitute for peace.

Me: I’m not good at that.

Her answer comes back almost immediately.

Maggie: I know.