Forty Three
It had been five days since Christmas.
Five days since Tilly woke up in Savannah’s bed the day after Christmas.
Five days since Savannah had stood in her kitchen in socked feet, hair still damp, and said, a little breathless, “We can try. Slow. If you want.”
Tilly had wanted.
Since then, everything had folded in on itself in a way that felt almost unreal.
Workdays bled into evenings. Evenings into mornings.
Tilly’s overnight bag lived by Savannah’s door like it belonged there.
“Most nights ended in her bed with Savannah warm and solid against them, her alarm going off before either of them wanted to face the day.
They moved together easily. Too easily, maybe.
At work, Savannah trusted them without thinking about it. Leaned in close to check framing. Passed them coffee without asking. Finished their sentences on live shots and laughed after like it was nothing special. Tilly noticed the way other crews looked at them now. Not curious. Just aware.
Outside of work, it was softer. Domestic in a way that made Tilly’s chest ache if they let themself think about it too long.
Savannah cooked. Tilly washed dishes. They ate on the couch with their legs tangled, a show playing mostly for background noise.
Savannah talked with her hands. Tilly listened.
It felt good.
It felt like something they could keep, if they were careful.
Savannah was at the stove now, stirring something that smelled like garlic and tomatoes, one hip braced against the counter. Tilly sat at the small kitchen table scrolling on their phone, half listening to her complain about a producer.
“He asked me if I could redo the standup because my hair was moving too much,” Savannah said. “Like I can control the wind.”
Tilly snorted. “Bold of him.”
“I know,” Savannah said, grinning. She stirred again, then glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, can you add olive oil to my grocery note? I think I forgot it again.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said automatically.
Savannah’s phone sat on the table between them, screen dark.
Tilly picked it up, then paused. “What’s your passcode?”
Savannah didn’t look back. “Zero four zero eight.”
Tilly blinked once, then unlocked it.
Notes opened to the last thing Savannah had been using. The grocery list sat at the top. Milk. Eggs. Coffee. A few things were crossed out and rewritten twice.
Tilly tapped it and added olive oil to the bottom of the list.
As the list shifted, another note preview slid into view beneath it.
Tilly Franklin
Just their name.
Tilly froze.
They hadn’t been looking for anything else. Savannah had told them to use her phone. Asked them to add something. Trusted them.
Their name was already there.
“Sav,” Tilly said before they could stop themself.
“Yeah?” Savannah answered, still facing the stove.
Tilly stared at the screen for a beat longer, then tapped the note.
The list loaded all at once.
precise, maybe too much
likes control
doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary
probably edits in silence
not impressed by charm
problem
The word sat at the bottom, small and devastating.
Tilly’s brain lagged half a second behind what their eyes were telling them. Savannah kept talking, unaware.
“I swear I bought basil,” she said. “It’s like it walked out.”
Tilly looked up slowly.
“What is this?” they asked.
Savannah turned. Took in their face. The phone in their hand.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
That single syllable felt like confirmation.
“What is it?” Tilly asked again, softer now, because their chest had started to hurt.
Savannah set the spoon down carefully. Wiped her hands on a dish towel that didn’t need it. “It’s old. It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like a list about me,” Tilly said. “With the word problem at the bottom.”
Savannah took a step toward them. “I wrote it so long ago. When things were messy. When I was trying to talk myself out of something I didn’t think I was allowed to want.”
“You didn’t delete it,” Tilly said.
Her mouth opened. Closed. “I forgot it was there.”
That landed harder than anger would have.
Tilly let out a quiet laugh that didn’t feel like laughter. “Okay.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re a problem,” Savannah said quickly. “It was about my fear. About work. About me spiraling. Not about you being wrong or bad or something I regret.”
Tilly looked back at the list.
The word was still there.
“You wrote it down,” they said. “You decided it was true enough to save.”
Savannah’s jaw tightened. “And then I chose you. Again. And again. I’m choosing you now.”
Tilly nodded. They wanted to believe her. They really did. But the word slid too neatly into an old, familiar place in their chest. The place that told them they were fine until they weren’t. Wanted until they complicated things.
Savannah watched them, waiting. Open. Already trying to fix it.
“I need a minute,” Tilly said.
Savannah’s shoulders dropped just slightly. “A minute to, what?”
“To think,” Tilly said. “To not say something I can’t take back.”
Silence stretched between them.
Savannah crossed her arms, defensive without meaning to be. “If you don’t want to keep doing this, then don’t.”
Tilly looked up sharply. “That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what it feels like,” Savannah said. “You don’t trust me.”
The words landed heavy and true and wrong all at once.
“I don’t know how to right now,” Tilly said quietly.
Savannah turned away, pacing once across the kitchen before facing them again. “Then maybe you should go.”
Tilly’s chest tightened.
That was not what they wanted. Not even close. But Savannah sounded raw, like she was done defending herself, done being the one who had to explain.
“I don’t want to leave,” Tilly said carefully. “I just need a little space. To figure out how not to screw this up.”
Savannah nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. “I think you should leave.”
It sounded final.
Tilly opened their mouth. Nothing came out.
They grabbed their jacket instead.
The door clicked shut behind them too quietly.
Tilly stood in the hallway for a long moment, forehead pressed lightly to the cool wood, heart racing.
Things had been going so well.
They still were. Weren’t they?
Tilly exhaled slowly.
They weren’t done. They knew that.
They just had no idea how to apologize in a way Savannah would believe.
And that scared them more than anything else had.