Chapter sixty
Freya
Theo went to bed easily tonight, completely wiped out from school, curling into me without hesitation, his warm little body slotting into mine like it always has, like it always will, and for a moment I let myself stay there longer than I needed to, longer than was practical, just holding him and breathing him in and letting that feeling settle in my chest. Because he is certain.
He is mine. There is no confusion there.
No second guessing. No wondering if I imagined something that wasn’t real.
I press a kiss to his hair, lingering for a second, my lips resting there just a little longer than usual before I gently ease away, tucking the duvet around him and smoothing it down like that somehow anchors me as much as it does him.
“Night, baby.”
“Night, Mum,” he murmurs, already half asleep.
I close the door quietly behind me, careful not to let it click too loudly. And then it’s just me. Again.
I make my way downstairs slowly, switching on the lamp in the corner instead of the main light, letting the room stay dim, because for some reason the thought of full brightness feels too much, like it would expose everything I’m trying not to look at too closely. It doesn’t help. Nothing really does.
I sit down on the sofa and pull my legs up underneath me, tucking them in tight, wrapping my arms loosely around myself like I’m trying to hold something together that’s already started to come undone.
My phone is on the coffee table. Face down.
Like that somehow makes it less real. Like if I can’t see it, then none of it exists.
God, this is embarrassing. The way I’ve let myself fall into this so quickly, the way I’ve let myself believe that this could actually be something real, something solid, something that wouldn’t disappear the second something easier or more fitting came along.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I can physically push the thoughts back, like I can stop them from spiralling into something bigger.
You knew better. You always know better.
And yet I still did it anyway. Because it felt different.
Because he felt different. Because for a few days there, it didn’t feel like I was just filling a space in someone’s life, it didn’t feel temporary or convenient or fragile, it felt like I was actually being chosen.
I let out a quiet breath, something that almost sounds like a laugh but isn’t, because there’s nothing funny about it.
Of course I thought that. Of course I let myself believe it.
I drop my hands back into my lap and lean back into the sofa, my head tipping against the cushion as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to find something solid to hold onto.
Because the truth is, this feeling isn’t new.
This quiet, creeping sense that I’m just…
not quite enough. Not compared to women like her.
Women who don’t have to question whether they belong in his world, who don’t feel like they’ve stepped into something that was never really meant for them, who don’t constantly feel like they’re waiting for the moment it all gets taken away.
I pick at the sleeve of my jumper absentmindedly, my fingers twisting the fabric without really thinking about it.
Of course he would go back to that. Of course he would.
Why wouldn’t he? It’s easier. More sparkly.
It fits. And me? I swallow hard. I don’t fit.
Not in that world. Not in those rooms. Not in those photos.
And maybe that’s the part I’ve been ignoring.
The part I didn’t want to see. Because it was easier to believe that what we had was enough to bridge that gap.
I take a slow breath, sitting up slightly, trying to pull myself back into something that feels like control.
Okay. Fine. So what now? Do I ask him? Do I sit there and say the words out loud, open myself up to whatever answer he gives me, risk hearing something that confirms everything I’m already afraid of?
The thought makes me feel physically sick.
No. I can’t do that. I’m not going to sit there and ask him where I stand.
I’m not going to hand him that power. If he wants to explain, he will.
If there’s something to explain, he’ll say it.
And if he doesn’t… Then that tells me everything I need to know.
I nod slightly to myself, like that settles it, like that gives me some kind of control back, but it doesn’t really land, not properly, because underneath it all there’s still that small, stubborn part of me that hasn’t given up yet.
The part that still wants to hear his voice.
The part that still wants him to walk through that door and tell me I’ve got it all wrong.
The part that still wants this to be real.
I reach for my phone again, not even sure why anymore, habit or hope or something in between, my thumb hovering over the screen before I finally pick it up.
The video is still there. I stare at it one last time, the bridge of my nose stinging all over again, my thoughts already starting to spiral in that same direction, when…
A knock sounds at the door. My entire body stills.
My heart drops instantly into my stomach, a rush of adrenaline flooding through me so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
I don’t need to check. I know it’s him. And suddenly I don’t know what I want more.
For it to be him. Or for it not to be. Because if it is…
Everything changes. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not if I’m wrong. And not if I’m right.