Chapter 29
Maya
W e do not go far after he finishes speaking, but the distance we put between the edge of town and the narrow path that winds up toward the overlook feels intentional, as if both of us understand without saying it that what comes next cannot happen in the middle of passing traffic or within sight of the café windows where my life has been contained for the past five years.
The path is familiar, one I have walked often enough that my feet know where to step even when my attention is somewhere else, but today every detail feels sharper, more defined, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the thin line of wind moving through the trees, the way the sky stretches open above us in a pale, distant blue that feels too calm for the tension sitting between us.
I stop before we reach the top, turning to face him in a space that feels neutral enough to hold what I need to say, not tied to memory in the way the café is, not burdened with the past in the way his cabin might be, and for a moment I let the silence settle, not because I do not have words, but because I want to choose them with care, want them to land exactly where they should without the distortion of anger or the softening of anything I have worked too hard to understand.
“I believe you,” I say, and I watch the way that effects him, the slight shift in his shoulders, the tension that loosens just enough to be noticeable, and I let it happen because it is true, because I do not doubt the facts of what he told me, do not question the reality of what he went through, the weight of the funeral, the memories it pulled back into the present in ways that are not easily controlled or dismissed.
“About the call. About the funeral. About how it affected you. I believe all of that.”
He nods once, his gaze steady on mine, but he does not speak, and I appreciate that, because it gives me the space to continue without interruption, to move through this in the way I need to rather than in the way that might be easier for him to hear.
“But that’s not the part that broke anything,” I continue, my voice even, controlled, each word placed deliberately.
“The part that broke something is what you did after. The part where you had time, where you had space, where you knew exactly what it would mean for me to hear nothing from you, and you chose silence anyway.”
The wind picks up slightly, moving a strand of my hair across my face, and I tuck it back behind my ear without breaking eye contact, grounding myself in the physical movement so that the emotional weight does not pull me off course.
“You say you were afraid,” I say, and there is no mockery in it, no dismissal, just a clear acknowledgment of what he has already told me.
“I understand fear. I understand what it means to feel like something inside you is too much for anyone else to handle. I grew up in a house where we didn’t always say the hardest things out loud because we thought it would protect the people we loved.
I know that instinct. I know how convincing it can be. ”
He watches me closely now, something in his expression tightening as he listens, and I can see the part of him that wants to respond, that wants to meet me halfway in this, but I hold up a hand slightly, not as a barrier, but as a signal that I am not finished yet, that this is my turn to speak without interruption.
“But there’s a difference between being afraid and making someone else pay for that fear,” I continue, and this time the words land with more force, not louder, but sharper, the clarity of them cutting through the space between us.
“There’s a difference between needing time and disappearing.
And you crossed that line, Marco. Not because of what happened to you, but because of what you chose not to do with me. ”
The truth of that settles in the space between us, undeniable, and I can see the impact of it in the way his posture shifts, the way he absorbs it without pushing back, without trying to reframe it into something less direct.
“You say you didn’t want me to see you at your worst,” I say, and now there is something softer in my voice, not in forgiveness, but in recognition of the complexity behind the choice.
“But what you actually did was show me something worse than that. You showed me what it looks like when you decide I don’t get to be part of your life when it matters most.”
He exhales slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to mine, and I can see the weight of what I am saying landing in real time, not deflected, not minimized, just received.
“That’s what hurt,” I say, and now I let the truth of it come through without filtering it into something easier to hear.
“Not the fact that you were struggling. Not the fact that something triggered you. It was the fact that you went through all of that and never once reached for me. Not even to say you couldn’t. You just… disappeared.”
The word lingers, heavier than I intend, but I do not take it back, because it is accurate, because it captures the essence of what I experienced in a way nothing else quite does.
“And I’ve been here before,” I add, the memory threading through my words in a way that does not need to be explained in detail for him to understand.
“I’ve stood in this exact kind of silence and told myself stories about why it made sense, about why you needed space, about why it didn’t mean what it felt like it meant.
I’ve done that already. I’m not doing it again. ”
There is a pause after that, not empty, but full of everything that has been said and everything that remains unresolved, and I feel something shift inside me, not a softening, not a release, but a kind of clarity that settles into place with a steadiness I can trust.
“I still care about you,” I say, and the admission comes out quieter, less forceful, but no less real, because denying it would be dishonest, would undermine everything else I have said by pretending that my feelings are something I can turn off at will.
“That didn’t go away just because you left.
It doesn’t go away just because I’m angry. ”
His gaze sharpens slightly at that, something flickering through it that I recognize but do not respond to, because acknowledging it too directly would shift the balance of this moment in a way I am not ready for.
“But caring about you isn’t the same as trusting you,” I continue, and this time the distinction feels like the most important thing I have said so far. “And right now, I don’t know if I can trust you not to do this again.”
The honesty of that lands harder than anything else, because it does not accuse, does not condemn, but simply states the reality of where we are, the distance that still exists between what he wants and what I am willing to give.
He nods slowly, his expression tightening in a way that suggests he understands the weight of that statement, the implications of it, and for a moment we stand there in a kind of quiet standoff, not adversarial, but unresolved.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he says, his voice lower than before, more measured, and I hear the effort in it, the restraint, the conscious choice not to push beyond what I have already given him. “I know I haven’t earned that.”
I study him for a moment, taking in the way he holds himself, the tension that has not fully left his frame, the awareness in his gaze that suggests he is not trying to move past this too quickly, and I recognize that as something new, something different from the version of him I have seen before.
“That’s good,” I say, and there is a hint of something in my tone that might almost be approval if the circumstances were different. “Because I’m not ready to give it.”
The wind shifts again, colder now, and I wrap my arms loosely around myself, not for comfort, but for warmth, grounding myself in the physical sensation so that the emotional intensity does not overwhelm the clarity I have worked to maintain.
“I need time,” I say, and the words feel less like a request and more like a statement of fact. “Not time where you disappear and I guess what’s happening. Time where you’re here, where I can see what you actually do with it.”
He nods again, more firmly this time, and there is something in the gesture that feels grounded, not reactive, not defensive, just an acknowledgment of what I am asking for.
“I can do that,” he says.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer, searching for something I cannot quite define, something that would tell me whether this is real, whether this version of him is something I can eventually trust, and I do not find certainty there, not yet, but I do find something else, something that feels like a beginning rather than an end.
“Good,” I say quietly.
The tension between us does not disappear, does not resolve into anything clean or simple, but it shifts again, settling into a space that feels more defined, and I feel the weight of everything we have said settle into place inside me, not as something that needs immediate action, but as something that will take time to process, to understand, to decide what it means for the future.
As I turn to walk back down the path, the ground feels slightly uneven beneath my feet, the shift subtle but noticeable, and I pause for a second, my hand moving instinctively to my stomach as a brief wave of dizziness passes through me, sharper than the ones I have felt before, strong enough to make me close my eyes for a moment as I steady myself.
“Are you okay?” Marco asks, his voice immediately closer, concern threading through it in a way that feels instinctive, unfiltered.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, opening my eyes and stepping forward again before the moment can stretch into something more significant. “Just moved too fast.”
It is not entirely accurate, but it is close enough to pass without further explanation, and I do not want to shift the focus of this moment away from what matters, away from the conversation we have just had, the boundaries I have set, the clarity I have established.
We walk back toward town in silence, the path familiar beneath our feet, the distance between us unchanged but no longer undefined, and as the café comes back into view, I feel the weight of what has been said settle into something I can carry without being consumed by it.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” I say finally, stopping just short of the door, the words landing with the same clarity as everything else I have said, but this time carrying something deeper, something that reaches beyond the immediate moment into whatever comes next.
He does not interrupt, does not argue, does not try to convince me otherwise.
“I know,” he says.
And for now, that is enough.