33. Kael
KAEL
When Ash calls, my heart splits in two.
One half remembers that I love him. It rushes to answer, to hear his voice, and to say whatever it would take to win him back. I’d change for him, let love swallow everything else, because it feels close enough. That half is terrifyingly strong and completely irrational.
The other half is stubborn. It wants to mute the call and pretend I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life wondering. It’s San Francisco fog, rolling in with the reminder that this man is not what I need. It’s practical, logical, and probably right… for the Kael I was before.
Split down the middle, I swipe to answer by habit. I stare at his photo while the call timer counts up.
“Kael?” His voice breaks the trance. “Kael, are you there?”
“Ash. Hey. Sorry. I’m here.”
An empty apartment is the worst place for a call like this, but it’s all I’ve got. Rent I can’t afford is due soon. My whole life is in half-taped boxes and drifts of Bubble Wrap. I’ve spent the day “moving,” which is mostly code for stewing over how unprepared I am for whatever comes next.
In two days, I’ll be halfway to Kansas.
“Is this a good time?” he asks.
No. It’s a horrible time. I’m standing in a cardboard graveyard, drowning in kitchenware. But what comes out is, “Yeah, I’m, uh, in the studio.” I pick up a loose spatula from the box I finished packing right before he called.
Ash is quiet, like he hadn’t expected me to answer.
“Are you… okay?” I ask first to dodge the same question.
“Still have my job,” he says.
“Guess I overreacted.” It stings to think he may have called to deliver an update on his employment status.
“No. I mean, you didn’t.” He exhales. “You told me Alistair was a creep. I never imagined… I’m glad you’re out. How’s the studio?”
I twirl the spatula, thinking about how many meals I didn’t cook with it. Free rent meant I could survive on takeout, microwave dinners, and Jamal’s leftovers. In Kansas, I’m going to have to actually learn what to do with this thing.
Ash doesn’t know I’m moving. Once I let myself see the obvious fact that staying in the most expensive city in the country with no patron, no Gram, and no boyfriend made zero sense, the decision came fast. But saying it out loud would make me exactly what he thinks I am: an impulsive, irresponsible, Jenga tower finally collapsing.
“Studio’s great,” I say instead, picturing how I left it a few hours ago with canvases stacked as its corners fill with boxes from the apartment.
My stubborn half can’t stand the idea of admitting how far the breakup knocked me off balance.
“Ash, look, I—” The softer half surges, begging me to just tell him everything. Tell him you’re leaving. Tell him you love him. Tell him you need him. “I’m sorry,” I say instead, a thin little bone tossed in the direction of the truth.
“Me too.”
“Really?” A flicker of hope sparks and dies in the same breath.
“That night I said something I regret,” Ash says. “I wanted to tell you it wasn’t true. You didn’t destroy everything in my life.”
I huff a laugh that tastes like dust. “I think you called me the fire instead of the phoenix.”
“I’m sorry, Kael. That was hurtful.”
I shrug, though he can’t see it. “It’s true.” My life is on fire. It always has been. “I’ve never not been on fire.”
With you it felt different, though. Contained. Warm. I won’t say that. I’m too stubborn to risk sounding that pathetic. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” I manage.
“I was on fire before I met you,” he says. “Blaming you for my mess isn’t fair.”
He’s being so honest, so calm. Is this what it sounds like when someone lets you down gently? Or does he actually want this? What would he say if I told him I’m leaving for what the internet says is the cheapest city in the country?
“When Alistair said all relationships use each other, I thought about you,” I blurt. “How I never wanted to use you. Have you ever been in love before?” The question slips out sideways, another dodge around the thing I want to say.
“Not really,” Ash says.
This is ridiculous. I’m surrounded by cardboard and Bubble Wrap. I’m going to be sleeping in my studio for a few nights and then driving halfway across the country. There’s no point holding back.
“I have,” I say, finally jumping. “Art has always been my first love. You know that. You encouraged it. But art was never more important than my gram… and it’s not more important than you.
” I drag in a breath, like I’m about to dive underwater.
“I love you, Ash.” I don’t stop. “I miss you. Tell me you don’t feel the same.
Can we”—my throat tightens—“can we get back together?”
By the end I’m out of air, the soft half of my heart retreating while the stubborn one runs around frantically building excuses for every second he doesn’t answer.
“You’re right,” Ash finally says, and my stupid, stubborn heart can choke on it. Now, he’ll say it back. “We had something,” he says instead. “Something rare. A once-in-a-lifetime high.” My heart soars for half a second, until he adds, “But I’m sorry, Kael. This is the end.”
“Wait. What? The end how?” I drop the spatula. It clatters against the hardwood, loud in the empty apartment.
“It’s time we go our separate ways.”
“But you just said— We agreed— We’re in love.”
“We hit it big,” he says, and his voice has gone frighteningly flat. “That doesn’t mean it lasts. It doesn’t mean it works. We keep hurting each other.”
“Yeah? And then we apologize and keep going. That’s— Ash, that’s what people do.”
“But we’re too different. We are. You know that.”
Stubbornness and love braid together and tighten my voice.
“That’s the point.” I’m talking too fast now.
“You’re not supposed to date yourself in another shirt.
Different is good. Different is— God, tell me what’s actually wrong.
Tell me what I did. Besides Alistair. Besides the gallery. I know that was bad. I know.”
“It’s not that,” Ash says.
“Then what the fuck is it?” I yell.
“It’s me,” he says. “I know what I need. I need boring. I need safe. I need stable. And you—” He stops and starts again. “You don’t need me. You need someone who doesn’t keep flinching at what you are.”
“Bullshit.” I’m pacing now, but with boxes everywhere, there’s nowhere to go. “You said you wanted me. You said it. Don’t act like I made that up. We work because we’re different.”
“I’m sorry,” Ash says again, and this time there’s no question in it, just a door closing.
“So that’s it?” I say, and my voice barely shows up.
“If we don’t do it now, we do it later,” he says. “You’d get tired of me. I’d make you smaller, watching me count down days while you’re in your studio, and we’d just—” He breaks off. “We’d rot.”
“I’m leaving San Francisco,” I blurt. “I’m packing right now. I’m moving to Wichita. Kansas.”
“If that’s what you want,” he says after a pause, “then yeah. It makes sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” I kick one of the boxes hard enough to sting my toes. “Listen to yourself. It’s like you know you’re holding a winning lottery ticket.” I wince at my own metaphor and barrel on. “And you’re refusing to cash it. Why?”
Ash sighs. “Because I don’t play the lottery.”
I groan. He’s so frustratingly predictable.
“The yo-yo,” I say, grabbing for a different memory. “That thing you said. Up and down, yeah? But uphill. We’re uphill, Ash.”
The silence on the other end is excruciating, and a tear slips down my cheek.
“I can’t be that for you,” he says. Then, quieter: “Goodbye, Kael.”
I whisper his name into the line, but he’s already gone. The call ends with a soft click, and all that love I finally said out loud has nowhere to go.