Those words used to mean something. Once, they could bend your decisions, soften your instincts.
Now they sounded hollow. Practiced. Useless.
You lowered your gaze, letting him believe you were conflicted.
“I… I need a little time,” you whispered.
He nodded, relief flashing across his face.
“Of course. Take your time.”
But you already had.
That night, when the house fell silent and his breathing deepened beside you, you slipped out of bed and stepped into the hallway. Your hands didn’t shake as you dialed your mother’s number.
“He said it exactly like we thought,” you murmured.
There was a pause on the other end, then her calm voice:
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