12. Shanay
Twelve
Shanay
The door clicks shut behind me, but it feels like he’s still out there.
I don’t look out the window.
I don’t check if he’s watching.
I already know he is.
Even after everything I said, Mike followed me all the way home, boots crunching behind me like he was the shadow I couldn’t shake. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop me.
He just made sure I got here.
Safe. Alone. Sore. Confused.
I lock the door. Slide down against it.
And cry.
—-
Saturday morning feels heavier than it should.
I don’t open the curtains.
I drink half a cup of cold coffee and stare at the chipped paint on my windowsill.
I should be angry.
I am.
But mostly I’m hollow.
I told him I wasn’t a thing to be moved.
I meant it.
But I still miss the way he moved me.
I spend most of the day cleaning things that don’t need cleaning.
The silence is so loud it gives me a headache.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face.
Hear that rough voice growling in my ear.
Feel his mouth, his hands, the strength of his body claiming mine.
And then the fire in his voice when I told him no.
—-
Sunday, I bake for no one.
Scroll my phone like an idiot even though I never gave him my number.
Not that he asked for it.
Not that I offered.
I wish I had.
Maybe he didn’t call because he couldn’t.
Or maybe because he didn’t want to.
I try to read. Can’t.
Try to write. Forget how.
Lie in bed for an hour in his shirt. The one I was wearing when I left his house. And cry again when it stops smelling like him.
—-
Monday morning hits like a punch.
I wake early. Move slow.
Try on three different outfits and end up settling on the first one.
It’s not for him, I tell myself.
Liar.
My stomach turns as I walk to work.
The air is crisp, sun barely up. The town’s still quiet.
I unlock the doors. Sit at my desk.
And wait.
I don’t know if I want him to come.
I don’t know if I can take it if he doesn’t.
—-
The door creaks open at 8:07.
I hear the boots first.
Steady. Familiar.
My pulse goes wild.
I keep my eyes on my screen.
Pretend I’m fine.
“Morning,” Mike says, voice low.
I look up.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black thermal, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Beard trimmed. Eyes tired.
“Hey.”
It comes out smaller than I want.
He nods once, then walks past me into the back, like this is just another day.
But it’s not.
Not for me.
—-
The tension hangs between us like a fog.
He doesn’t avoid me.
Doesn’t approach.
Just… works. Quietly.
When I pass him a bottle of water mid-morning, our fingers brush.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
Later, I climb a step stool to re-shelve a donation bin.
It wobbles and he’s there instantly.
One big hand on the stool, the other on my calf.
“I’ve got you,” he says. Not gruff. Just steady.
I look down at him.
He’s not looking up.
Just holding me there. Quiet and strong.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He nods again. “You’re welcome.”
—-
We don’t say anything else.
But when he leaves just after noon, the silence is heavy.
Lost him before I even really had him.