Scott
Idon’t sleep well after he leaves.
It isn’t because of what Harrison said, not exactly, but because of how right he had been. How easily he’d seen something I’d been trying not to look at too closely myself. Something I’d managed to keep just out of reach for years until suddenly it wasn’t anymore.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face again, steady and calm, asking me the one question I hadn’t been ready to answer but knew I couldn’t avoid anymore.
Am I something you keep separate from the rest of your life?
The words replay over and over, not accusing, not harsh, just honest.
I turn onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to block it out, but it doesn’t work. Because the truth is, I don’t want to hide him.
But wanting something and knowing how to do it are two very different things. I’ve spent so long building my life around silence, around carefully choosing what I say and what I don’t, that the idea of unraveling all of that at once feels overwhelming in a way I can’t quite put into words.
By the time morning comes, I haven’t really slept at all.
I push myself out of bed and begin going through the motions of my morning and trying to focus on small, manageable things like making coffee, finishing the dishes I had abandoned the day before, and anything that doesn’t require me to sit still long enough to think too hard about what comes next.
My phone sits on the counter beside me, silent. I tell myself I’m fine with that. That space might help me sort through everything without the added pressure of trying to say the right thing. But deep down, I know that’s not the truth.
Reaching for my phone, I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, debating whether I should be the one to reach out or if I should give him more time, give this more space, pretend I’m the kind of person who doesn’t overthink things like this.
I think about that line from We Bought a Zoo, the one about needing ten seconds of courage, and for a second, I almost laugh because this feels like exactly that, except stretched out and heavier and a lot harder to fake.
Ten seconds.
That’s all it takes.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself just enough to stop thinking long enough to actually do something, and before I can talk myself out of it, I open his contact and start typing.
Scott: Are you working today?
I hit send before I can change my mind.
The reply isn’t immediate like he usually is, and I find myself watching the screen longer than I mean to, my chest tightening as the seconds stretch.
Finally, I hear the soft ding of an incoming message.
Harrison: Yeah. Afternoon shift.
I nod to myself, even though he can’t see it.
Scott: Okay.
I stare at that for a second, realizing it sounds too short, too distant, like I’m pulling back when that isn’t what I want to do at all, and before I can stop myself, I type again.
Scott: Can I come by later?
This time, the pause is longer. Long enough that I start to wonder if I’ve already made a mistake.
Then—
Harrison: Yeah. I’d like that.
The store is busier when I walk in this afternoon. The low hum of conversation fills the space as carts move through the aisles. People stop to talk to each other in a way that feels effortless and familiar.
I’m not used to this kind of place yet. To being somewhere where everyone seems to know each other and where every interaction carries a sense of history that I’m not part of.
I spot Harrison near the back, helping a woman reach something on a high shelf, his movements easy and natural, his voice carrying just enough that I can hear the warmth in it even from across the aisle.
He looks up as I approach, and for a second, everything else fades again.
But this time, there’s something else there too.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I stop a few feet away, suddenly aware of the people around us.
“You need help finding something?” he asks, his tone light but his eyes searching mine.
“Yeah,” I say after a second, forcing a small smile. “Actually, I do.”
He nods slightly, like he understands more than I’m saying.
“Alright,” he says, gesturing down the aisle. “What are you looking for?”
I step closer. “Five minutes,” I say quietly.
His gaze holds mine for a second longer, then he nods.
“End of my shift.”
I wander the store after that, not really paying attention to what I pick up, just filling a basket with things I don’t need so I don’t look like I’m waiting, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Every time I glance up, I find him again.
Across the store.
Talking to someone.
Laughing.
Working.
And every time, I feel that same pull, that same quiet certainty that’s been there from the beginning, now layered with something that makes this feel more real than it did just a day ago.
When his shift finally ends, he finds me by the register.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, setting the basket down without even looking at what’s inside it.
“Yeah.”
We don’t talk much as we walk out, not because there isn’t anything to say, but because it feels like we’re both waiting. Circling around something that needs to be said without quite knowing how to start.
The air outside is cooler than it had been earlier, the sun dipping lower and casting long shadows across the pavement as we move away from the store and down the quieter side street.
It isn’t until we reach the small park behind the main street that he stops.
I turn to face him, my pulse picking up. “I’m sorry,” I say before he can speak. The words come out faster than I intend, but I don’t take them back. “For yesterday,” I add, more carefully this time. “For not handling it better.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.
“It didn’t feel that way.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s true.”
I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words, the ones that will explain something I barely understand myself.
“I’ve spent a long time making sure no one looks too closely,” I say finally. “Making sure I don’t give people a reason to ask questions I’m not ready to answer.”
His gaze softens. “I get that.”
“I don’t want to do that with you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I just don’t know how to stop.”
The honesty in that feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing where I’m going to land.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he steps closer.
“You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” he says quietly. “You just have to stop pretending with me.”
Something in my chest tightens at that. Because that’s the part that scares me the most.
Not the world.
Not my parents.
Him.
Because if I let myself be fully honest here, fully seen, there’ll be no going back.
“I don’t want to lose this,” I say, the words coming out softer than I intend.
He doesn’t hesitate. “You won’t.”
There’s no doubt in it. No hesitation. Only certainty.
I step closer, closing the distance between us. This time, when my hand brushes his, I don’t pull away.
I let it stay there.
Let myself feel it.
Let myself choose it.
His fingers shift slightly, not gripping, not holding too tight, just enough to acknowledge the contact, to meet me where I am instead of pushing me further than I’m ready to go.
And somehow, that means more than anything else he could have done.
We stand like that for a while, the space between us smaller now. It’s not gone, but it's not something I’m hiding behind either.
Not anymore.
“I’m trying,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he says.