Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
CADE
The silence I’ve wrapped myself in for the last five days at first felt good, like a buffer or warm blanket protecting me from a stinging cold.
One that kept me insulated or isolated, depending on how you look at it.
But that cozy feeling lasted less than one full day and now?
Day five? The silence feels like I’m living in a coffin. One I built around myself.
I miss him so fucking much that my bones actually ache. I wake up in the morning with a deep throb running through me, soul deep, and I can’t drink enough water, or take enough Advil. The ache doesn’t go away because it’s the absence of something so great, it’s irreplaceable.
I haven’t stepped foot in our office since the symposium. Haven’t answered Noah’s calls. Haven’t done much of anything except haunt my house like a ghost, if ghosts could take the form of depressed slugs that eat from cartons and keep the lights low. And cry. A lot.
I ignore his calls and messages.
I sit on my couch, the same one where we graded papers side by side, where his legs draped over my lap and his deep, sexy laughter filled the air.
I thought maybe… I don’t know. That we were permanent? That sounds so stupid now. We aren’t fucking markers.
I grab a pillow and press my face into it, inhaling deeply and yes, a little pathetically. The pillow still carries the faint trace of him—his warm and woody scent that makes my chest physically throb with longing every time I breathe it in too deeply.
Rain lashes the windows, a slow and steady drumming that echoes the storm in my head. Humidity nudges the glass, turning the world outside into a Gaussian blur. Inside, my thoughts are sharper, much more definitive.
You’re too inexperienced. Too broken. Too late.
Eli—Dr. Eli Morton—keeps resurfacing in my mind, a chapter I woefully can’t quit rereading. The way he sauntered across that stage and named Noah. Called Noah out by name. My boyfriend.
Or was my boyfriend.
I remember the ease in which he rested his hand on Noah’s arm at the reception. Their bodies know each other, that’s something I’m struggling with, I’ll admit. My body has no count nor has it been counted. I hardly think Rhiannon is putting me on any lists.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until sparks dance behind my lids.
Eli knows himself. Knows what he wants, how to take it, how to give it. He didn’t spend decades labeling himself broken before he even understood the question.
I did.
So many years of quiet disconnection, of watching colleagues and friends fall into passionate relationships, get married, have the white picket fences, all while I observed from the margins, convinced desire was a language I simply did not speak.
Until Noah.
I canceled our Friday run with a single clipped text message.
Ignored his Cade, please talk to me text message that followed.
Skipped the department happy hour we’d planned to attend together, the one where I’d promised myself I would try holding his hand in public again.
Each avoidance feels like like something good, like self-preservation to keep myself from spinning out.
But they’re victories that I don’t want. Not really.
Childish.
That’s what I feel most of all. While others were exploring, falling in and out of love of all shapes and sizes, some minor and others made of marble. Some are so memorable and deep that they forever change you. What was I doing? Ignoring, hiding, misunderstanding.
Noah and Eli have lived boldly. And I have, in a way, hid from myself.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
Another message. Another one that I won’t answer, because we’re already living the answer.
He shouldn’t pause his entire life for me and my need to move slowly.
I mean, he’d been trying to ask me out for months.
No, he did ask me out for months. And once he pointed it out, I felt pretty stupid because it was all so obvious. As clear as day to most people.
But that’s why I don’t feel like most people. I didn’t even think that Noah would ever think of me that way. Though all along, I knew that I liked him. I just didn’t let myself really think about how much, or what it meant.
The screen lights up.
Noah
It’s been five days, Cade. I’m worried. Let me in. Whatever’s in your head, please.
I turn the phone face down. Tears burn my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I don’t deserve his constant worry and attention.
I don’t deserve the way he’s loved me so far—gently, fiercely, without asking me to be anything but what I am in each uncertain moment.
That’s the worst part. Noah has been perfect.
He understood when I let go of his hand the other day.
He’s never pushed. He’s never been impatient or angry.
He’s never asked for anything that I wasn’t desperate and eager to give.
Never, not once. He’s a patient teacher, a passionate lover, and a solid presence in my life, showing me that affection isn’t fleeting. And I’m repaying him by disappearing.
My lungs seize and panic fills my throat, hot and sticky.
What am I doing? Am I making a mistake? Or is Noah making a mistake by so actively pursuing someone like me?
The rain intensifies, thunder rumbling on the horizon.
I rise, pacing my living room, bare feet silent on the rug.
My body remembers this space as a place christened by Noah, and now pacing here makes me think of him.
Everything makes me think of him. The trace of his hands on my hips as he guided me through our first time with me inside him.
The gentle way he mapped my skin with his mouth, moaning and mewling as he worshipped me.
Heat stirs low in my belly at the memories.
Even now, spiraling, my body craves him, aches for him. Literally.
I stop at the window, and press my forehead against the chilled glass.
Outside, the streets are empty, puddles reflecting streetlights and faraway stars in the sky.
I imagine Noah in his apartment, maybe grading papers alone at his kitchen island.
Or worse—reaching out to someone easier, tired of my silence, tired of me.
Someone like Eli, who wouldn’t need five days of radio silence to process a simple conversation.
I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid.
Twice.
Then I see them together in my mind’s eye: Noah’s broad shoulders flexing as he moves over Eli, no hesitation, no white gloves needed.
I was childish but I still am. Hiding instead of communicating.
Running from the very first real connection I’ve ever had.
For years I watched him from across our office, the charismatic professor who surprised me at my interview panel—wondering if he noticed the way my gaze lingered on him.
Now I know who he really is and just how he feels, and instead of embracing it, I’m running.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I pick it up, not answering but merely surveying the news on-screen. Three missed calls. Then—a string of texts that grow increasingly pained:
Nothing changes us and what we have.
I chose you. I choose every perfect second of learning you.
I miss your frown. Your fingers in my hair. The smile that’s only I get to see.
The last one breaks something open. A sob sticks in my throat as I find and sink onto the couch, my phone clutched against my chest. I think about typing a response three times, but none feel right.
I’m sorry feels inadequate. I’m scared feels too raw.
I think I’m broken feels like the truth I don’t want to be true, and one I don’t want to burden him with if it is.
Instead, I set the phone aside and let the spiral pull me under completely.
Night falls fast. I skip food for dinner, choosing wine instead. The alcohol loosens the tight knot in my chest. But the wine doesn’t stop the memories from flooding in.
Noah in the shower after our run, water streaming down his back as he knelt and took me into his mouth.
The way his breath hitched when I finally grew confident enough to touch him, learning the exact rhythm that made him sweaty and wild.
Lazy Sundays where we simply existed together peacefully, his head in my lap while I read, fingers tangled together without mention, natural and calm.
Reality crashes back. Eli’s knowing smile. Their history. Noah’s past stretched out like a tapestry rich with experiences I can never match. How many lovers has he guided the same way he guided me?
Does it matter?
I curl into myself on the couch, knees to chest. Even with all of these thoughts, one is predominant: the silence has become its own presence in the house. Heavy and suffocating. My self-built coffin.
I cancel more office hours via email to the department secretary, claiming a migraine.
The lie is getting ridiculous, and I’m sure Noah knows the truth.
He’s giving me space, just like he always has—reading my signals with that wonderful perception that makes him such a great professor, partner, and friend.
After a mini-panic attack on the couch, I take a long, scalding shower, water dripping from my hair as I step out in front of the mirror. I look haunted and I feel even worse.
I want to believe it. I want to text him back and let him pull me from this spiral the way he’s done before— with words and touches that revise every lingering question and every small doubt.
But the fear is louder today. That my inexperience, my late awakening, my tendency to close off when overwhelmed will eventually drive him back to someone easier.
Someone like Eli.
The thought sends me back to the couch, another glass of wine in hand. Outside, the rain has eased into a misty drizzle. The city lights blur softly beyond the window. I close my eyes and let the exhaustion pull at me.
Five days of spiraling alone in this house that is way too empty without his presence. I thought I was protecting myself but deep down, I know the truth: I’m scared that this time away may prove that I was right. He needs someone more experienced.
I pick up my phone one last time. His last message stares back at me, full of love and patience. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I power the phone off instead, sinking deeper into the cushions as thunder rolls again in the distance.
The silence continues. And in it, I remain convinced that closing myself off is the kindest thing I can do—for both of us.