15. Home…?
HOME…?
January came quietly.
No announcement. No warning. Just a shift in the air, and suddenly… BOOM! Victor and I were back in each other’s lives. Like nothing ever broke. Like nothing ever ended.
Like that night—fireworks, tears, and everything in between—had somehow rewritten our fate in our favor.
And God, it felt so easy.
Too easy, I must say.
We fell into each other like we remembered the steps to a dance we never really forgot.
The way he walked beside me—slightly ahead, then slowing down just enough so I could catch up. Or the way his hand would brush against mine, not quite holding it, but close enough to make me feel like he could. Or the way he looked at me, like I was still familiar… like I was still his.
We started going out again, but not in a grand, intentional way. Just small things.
Café sit-downs that turned into hours. Sleepovers that felt domesticated. Late-night drives with no destination, just music playing softly in the background while the city blurred past us like something we didn’t need to pay attention to.
Sometimes we’d sit in silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with explanations.
And I told myself, ‘God! This is what I wanted!’
This was the version of us I kept replaying in my head after he left.
The easy one.
The soft one.
The one that didn’t hurt.
I started staying over his apartment again—or him over at mine.
At some point, the difference stopped mattering. His presence just folded into my life like it had always belonged there.
We’d wake up late, tangled in sheets that felt warmer than they should have—the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from skin, but from something deeper. Familiarity. Comfort. Something dangerously close to peace.
He still knew me.
That was the part that got me.
The way he remembered how I like my Milo in the morning. The way he’d hand me things without asking, like he already knew I needed them. The way his touch felt—not new, not hesitant—but certain.
My body wasn’t something he had to learn again.
He just knew.
And I let myself melt into that. Into the way everything felt like it picked up exactly where it left off, as though the ending never really happened.
We laughed the same way. Talked the same way. Looked at each other the same way.
There was something unspoken between us that didn’t need to be explained.
And maybe that was the problem.
But I didn’t let myself think about that…
Not yet.
Because this… this was everything I had begged the heavens for.
Every version of him I replayed in my head—softer, kinder, still choosing me—it was all here now.
Real. Within reach.
And I wasn’t about to question it. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when he pulled me closer like there was nowhere else he wanted to be. Not when being with him felt like breathing again.
We didn’t need labels.
We didn’t need definitions.
We didn’t need to talk about what we were.
Because whatever this was, it felt like before. And before had been enough for me once.
So I convinced myself it would be enough again.
And when he held me—when the world quieted down to just the heartbeats between us, when everything else faded into something distant and unimportant—I let myself believe it completely.
That this was it.
This was real.
That this was home.
Dinner ended the way most of our nights did now—uncomplicated.
We stepped out into the night together, the air cooler than it had been inside, carrying the faint hum of the city settling into itself. Cars passed. People lingered outside cafes and restaurants, still laughing, still talking like the night wasn’t ready to end yet.
Victor walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed.
Almost.
I glanced at his hand, relaxed at his side.
Close enough to grab mine.
It would’ve been so much easier. Just a small shift or a quiet decision.
Almost.
I imagined it for a second: his fingers lacing with mine. Casual. Unbothered. Like I wasn’t something that needed to be hidden.
But the moment passed.
And I let it.
I slipped my hands into my pockets instead, telling myself this was the reason why didn’t reach for mine.
“Victor!”
A voice cut through the night—familiar to him, not to me.
Victor turned. “Kent.”
A guy approached us, already smiling.
“Didn’t expect you to see here,” he said, clapping Victor lightly on the shoulder.
“Same,” Victor replied. “Just had dinner.”
They slipped into conversation easily—work, mostly. Projects. Deadlines. Names I didn’t recognize.
And I just stood there behind him. Present, but not really part of it.
Kent kept glancing at me. Not obviously, but just enough to have a quick look. Then back at Victor.
Then again, like he was trying to place me, or figure out why I was there in the first place.
I gave a small smile when our eyes met for the third time he glanced at me.
He nodded politely.
Victor kept talking.
Then, after a few seconds, Kent tilted his head slightly and finally let the question slip out. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”
Friend.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
“Oh—yeah,” Victor said. “This is James.”
Just that.
James.
Nothing more.
No pause. No explanation. No… anything.
I smiled anyway.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” Kent replied, offering a quick nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
And that was it.
They went back to talking.
I stood there, listening, nodding when it felt appropriate.
Present.
Still.
Easy.
Because that’s what this was, right?
That’s what I was.
Easy.
But we didn’t need labels, did we?
We didn’t need introductions that meant more than they had to.
This is fine, I told myself.
This is enough.
It had to be.
Victor eventually checked the time. “I gotta go,” he said. “Early day tomorrow.”
“Same,” Kent replied. “See you around.”
They exchanged a quick handshake. Kent glanced at me one last time and gave a small nod.
Victor turned back to me like nothing had shifted.
“Let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward the parking lot.
And we walked the rest of the way in silence—close enough that our shoulders almost touched again.
Almost.
The next day, we were in a grocery store, picking up essentials together—like husband and husband.
Victor pushed the cart, one hand resting lazily on the handle as he steered through the aisle like he had done this a hundred times before.
Maybe he had… just not with me.
I walked beside him, occasionally reaching out to grab things we didn’t really need, so it could feel like I belonged in the moment.
“Do you still get the same coffee?” he asked, glancing at the shelf.
“I don’t drink coffee,” I said, catching him off guard.
Then he huffed a small laugh. “I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Just checking if you’ve grown.”
“I haven’t,” I said.
He glanced at me briefly, a half-smile forming like it was nothing.
“I can tell.”
I let out a small laugh, like it was a joke.
Even though something in me flinched.
It probably was a joke to him, and an insult to me. But I didn’t find the courage to inquire further. So, I held my tongue.
And then it was easy again.
We moved through the aisles, brushing shoulders, sharing small comments, falling into a rhythm that felt normal.
Home, even.
But somewhere between the cereal and the cleaning supplies, a thought came in uninvited.
I picked up a random item that I didn’t even need, turning it over in my hands just to have something to do.
“Hey,” I said.
He didn’t look at me right away. “Yeah?”
I swallowed, trying to make it sound casual. “When we weren’t talking…” That was as far as I got before I felt it.
That shift.
Not visible, but there.
Like something in him quietly bracing.
He grabbed a bottle from the shelf, reading the label like it suddenly required his full attention.
I kept going anyway.
“I just—” I let out a small breath. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to ask what happened.”
Silence.
Not loud but heavy enough to feel.
He placed the bottle in the cart, then shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It was a lot for me.”
I nodded slowly, like that made sense.
But the question still lingered in my mind unanswered. So I tried again. Softer this time.
“I didn’t really go out,” I said, eyes still on the shelf. “For like a month.”
He didn’t react.
Or perhaps he did, just not in the way I needed.
“I kind of just stayed in my apartment,” I continued, a small laugh slipping out like I didn’t want it to sound too serious. “Didn’t really see anyone.”
A beat passed, and then—
“Do we still need stuff for the bathroom?” he asked, glancing at the next aisle.
And just like that.
A clean cut.
No hesitation. No acknowledgement.
The conversation simply evaporated.
I blinked, letting it settle.
“Oh,” I said, quickly adjusting. “Yeah, I think we’re out of… soap.”
“Hand soap or body wash?”
“Hand soap.”
He nodded, already turning the cart toward the next aisle.
And I followed.
Of course I did.
Because the truth was, a part of me felt relieved.
Relieved that he didn’t ask more.
Relieved that I didn’t have to say everything I had been holding in.
Relieved that the moment passed before it could turn into something heavier.
Because what if I didn’t like the answer?
So I let it go… just like he did.
Just like he always did.
We picked out soap. Argued over scents. He said something smelled too sweet. I told him he had no taste. He bumped his shoulder to mine. I laughed.
And just like that, we were okay again.
On Friday morning, I woke up before my alarm.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone and stared at the screen for a second. Then, just like breathing, I opened our conversation and typed ‘Good morning!’
Simple. Safe.
I hit send and set my phone down beside me, staring at the ceiling with an exhale so deep it made me dizzy.
I got up immediately. Made breakfast. Took a shower. Let the morning stretch into something productive, so that my day wouldn’t revolve around waiting for his reply.
So I told myself not to check.
Not immediately.
Just eventually.
His name sat there at the top of the screen, unread. I stared at it for a second longer than I should have… then locked the phone.
It was fine.
He was probably busy.
So, I went back to what I was doing.
I tried to stay in the buzz of my work and tried not to let my mind wander into places I had already been before.
But habits don’t disappear easily.
They just wait until something triggers them again.
So I checked my phone again—just a quick glance, nothing intentional.
And then I saw him online on Messenger. That small green dot sitting on top of his profile picture, which meant he was already awake… that he was there… just not for me.
I paused—not dramatically, but just enough to feel it. That familiar, quiet drop in my stomach.
Because I had seen this before. Felt this before. Learned this pattern before.
The space between available and reply.
I swallowed, locked my phone again, and placed it down this time, as if that would change anything.
However, unlike before, I didn’t text again, because I already knew how that would look. And I wasn’t trying to be that version of myself anymore—the one who needed too much.
So I adjusted… again.
Gave him space he didn’t ask for or silence he didn’t notice.
And when his reply finally came during lunch, it was a casual, ‘hey,’ like I hadn’t gone through paralyzing episodes of overthinking.
But I replied just the same. Easy. Unbothered. Cool.
Like I hadn’t felt anything at all.
Later that night, he was beside me again.
Close…
Familiar…
Calm…
Victor lay on his back, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped loosely across his stomach. The room was dim, lit only by the soft spill of city light flickering through the curtains.
I lay next to him, turned slightly in his direction, watching him—not in a way that needed to be seen. Just quietly.
I didn’t realize it at first, but I was actually trying to memorize something I wasn’t sure I’d get to keep.
He looked peaceful. Unbothered. Like none of this carried weight for him the way it did for me.
At some point, his breathing evened out.
And yet I stayed awake.
Of course I did.
Because the silence always got louder when there was nothing left to distract me.
No laughter. No movement. No version of us I could hide behind. Just me and everything I had been choosing not to think about.
I shifted slightly, my eyes tracing the outline of him in the dark.
The same face.
The same presence.
The same person I had spent months trying to forget, now here, within reach, like he had never left at all.
And maybe that was it—the part that didn’t sit right.
Because it felt like we skipped something. Like we went from ending… back to middle… without ever understanding why it ended in the first place.
No apologies.
No explanations.
No answers.
Just us… again.
It was supposed to be enough, but it didn’t feel like enough.
I swallowed, the thought sitting heavier now—quieter, but hard to ignore.
I was happy.
I was.
This—him—us… it was everything I had asked for. Everything I thought I needed to finally feel okay again.
So why did it feel like I was still being careful? Like I was watching my words before I said them or measuring moments instead of just living them. It felt as though one wrong move—one wrong question—could make him disappear all over again.
I shifted my body, turning onto my back, staring at the ceiling as I let the silence stretch… and the truth settle wherever it wanted to.
He also shifted beside me slightly, still asleep, his arm brushing against mine.
I didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean either. I just stayed somewhere in between, holding onto something that didn’t feel as solid as I wanted it to be.
Because the truth was, I had him again.
And maybe that should’ve been enough.
But as I lay there, wide awake beside the person I thought who felt like home, fragments of the past came rushing in all at once.
Francis.
Kyle.
Rick.
Their faces flashed in my mind—the things they said and the things they tried to teach me right before the goodbyes.
And that was when it hit me.
The realization you don’t say out loud, because saying it would make it real.
I still held my tongue.
He still hadn’t apologized.
And it still didn’t feel safe.