19. Non-negotiable
NON-NEGOTIABLE
Saturday evening settled over Southside in that soft, expensive way the city did best.
Warm lights flickered against glass buildings. Cars slid through the streets below in slow streams of yellow and red. Somewhere outside, music drifted faintly from a nearby bar, blending with the distant noise of people trying to make their weekends feel meaningful.
Victor and I were having dinner at Lynn Café.
Inside, the restaurant felt like a greenhouse designed by someone with heartbreak and money.
Thin trees curled between tables like they had been allowed to grow wherever they wanted.
White fabric draped from the ceiling in loose folds, softening the entire room, while oversized abstract panels hovered above us like clouds suspended mid-collapse.
Gold-trimmed chairs reflected the warm light just enough to make everything glow.
The place looked unreal—like some medieval fantasy stripped of its kings and queens and noblemen, leaving only the remnants of beauty behind.
And yet, beneath all of that softness, there was something strange about the space too.
The branches of the thin trees were bare.
The ceiling looked fractured if you stared at it long enough.
Even the mirrors along the walls reflected people in pieces instead of whole.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t stop looking around, because somehow, the place felt exactly like us: pretty from a distance, but up close, cracks were everywhere.
Victor sat across from me, cutting cleanly into his steak while soft jazz drifted through the restaurant speakers.
He looked good in that dark blue polo shirt.
Of course he did.
I was so in love with him.
My eyes lingered on him longer than they should have, tracing the familiar calm in his face—the kind of man who seemed effortless no matter what room he stepped into.
And for a moment, looking at him there beneath the soft gold lighting, it almost became easy to pretend none of the past months had happened.
That maybe we were simply two people having dinner.
That maybe love hadn’t already broken itself open between us.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Victor asked suddenly, glancing up from his plate.
I blinked, realizing I had been staring.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re somewhere else.”
I let out a small laugh, though it barely reached my chest.
“Maybe I am.”
Victor studied me for a second longer than usual. Then he took a sip of his wine.
And somehow, that hurt too.
He continued eating like he always did: calm, measured, composed.
And then suddenly, before I could stop myself—
“What happened with us?” I asked.
Victor looked up.
Not startled but confused enough for his brows to pull together slightly.
“What do you mean?”
I swallowed.
“The last time,” I clarified carefully. “When we ended last year.”
Something shifted in his face then.
Not guilt.
Not sadness.
Guardedness.
Victor leaned back slightly in his chair, fork and knife still in his hands.
“We already talked about that before,” he said.
Not an answer.
I nodded slowly anyway.
“I don’t think we actually did,” I replied.
His jaw moved faintly, like he was thinking through his next response before speaking.
“James,” he said calmly, “it was a difficult time for both of us.”
Again—clean, polished, and careful enough to avoid the center of it.
I stared at him.
“A difficult time,” I repeated softly.
Victor gave a small nod, as if that summarized it well enough.
But my chest tightened instead, because suddenly I could feel it again: the months of depression, the unanswered messages, the panic attacks, the feeling of almost losing my entire life while trying to survive his punishment of silence.
I still couldn’t fully fathom how I cried for three straight months for him to reduce it to a ‘difficult time.’
I set down my fork carefully.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said.
Victor’s expression hardened just slightly.
“Then what do you mean?”
I hesitated, because part of me already knew this conversation was dangerous. Because once we stepped fully into it, there was no pretending anymore.
And I didn’t want to pretend anymore.
So, I asked anyway, “Why did it end like that?”
Victor looked away briefly this time, eyes drifting toward the hanging lights above us before returning to me.
“You know why.”
“No,” I said quietly, but more firmly now. “I know we fought. I know I raised my voice. But I don’t think I understand why everything after that felt like I stopped existing to you.”
That landed.
I saw it in the way his grip tightened around the fork and knife in his hands.
But when he spoke again, his tone stayed frustratingly even.
“I needed space.”
“For months?”
“James—”
“No, because even now, I’m still trying to understand,” I said quickly, my voice still soft but no longer retreating.
“I apologized. Repeatedly. Explained myself. I came to your apartment like a devoted dog begging to be loved. And every damn time, it felt like you already decided there’s no more us. ”
Victor exhaled slowly through his nose.
People around us continued eating, talking, and laughing.
Meanwhile, it suddenly felt like all the oxygen had disappeared from our table.
“You hurt me,” he said finally.
There it was
Simple. Direct. But still incomplete.
My throat tightened.
“But you hurt me too,” I replied. “Over and over and over. And yet I forgave you. I let things pass. I chose us over your uncertainty, your mixed signals, your subtle cruelty.”
Victor’s eyes lifted to mine again immediately.
And for the first time that night, something colder entered his expression.
“I don’t think this is the place for this conversation,” he said.
“But this is the conversation we keep avoiding.”
“James—”
“No, because every time we get close to it, you pull away.”
His jaw tightened even more.
I could see the irritation beginning to surface beneath the composure.
“I came here tonight to have dinner with you,” he said carefully. “Not to reopen old wounds.”
“Were they ever closed?”
Silence.
Heavy and sharp.
Victor stared at me for a long second.
Then suddenly, the soft clink of metal echoed against the plate as he set his fork and knife down harder than necessary—not loud enough to cause a scene, but enough.
“We’re leaving,” he said flatly.
My chest tightened instantly.
Victor reached for his wallet, already signaling for the waiter with the same calm efficiency he brought into everything else.
Like shutting things down was easier than staying.
I watched him speak quietly to the server, asking for the bill.
And for the first time that night, a dangerous thought entered my mind: push harder.
Because maybe this—this right here—was the real problem all along.
Every time things became uncomfortable, Victor left the room emotionally before I could even finish speaking.
The waiter walked away to prepare the bill.
Victor didn’t look at me.
And across the table, surrounded by golden lights and fractured mirrors, I sat there, wondering whether telling the truth would heal us, or would finally destroy us for good.
The moment we stepped outside the restaurant, the warmth disappeared instantly.
The night air felt colder than it should have—sharp enough to slip beneath skin like needles.
Victor stood a few feet away from me as we waited for our Grab ride.
Not beside me.
Not close enough to touch.
Just… there. One hand in his pocket, the other rubbing faintly against his jaw like he was trying to contain something inside himself.
He looked away from me entirely, eyes fixed somewhere across the street where people continued living their lives without realizing mine was unraveling again.
Neither of us spoke. And somehow, that silence felt worse in the open, because now there was nothing softening it. No jazz music. No warm lighting. No polished restaurant atmosphere pretending we were still okay.
Just us and the wreckage between us.
I looked at him anyway, my eyes tracing the familiar shape of him like it was the last time—like my heart still believed memorizing him hard enough could stop me from losing him again.
And maybe that was the cruelest part.
I still loved him.
Even now.
Even after the punishment of silence.
The abandonment.
The months of pain that nearly swallowed me whole.
And then suddenly, memories began crashing into me all at once.
The drag bar.
The longing stares.
The fireworks at TOPS.
The random ‘I love you’ texts.
The late nights tangled together in bed.
The laughter until we couldn’t breathe.
The times where his arms wrapped around me absentmindedly, like loving me had once been the easiest thing in the world.
My mind clung to those memories, trying to negotiate with reality.
But underneath all of it now—beneath the longing, the grief, the unbearable love—something stronger finally stood its ground.
My non-negotiable: myself.
The realization settled heavy into my chest. Because loving someone was one thing but surviving them was another.
“You almost destroyed my life,” I said quietly.
Victor turned immediately.
“What?”
My throat tightened, but this time, I didn’t back down.
“You almost destroyed my life,” I repeated, tears already burning behind my eyes. “You did.”
Victor stared at me, stunned.
And suddenly, once the words started, I couldn’t stop them anymore.
“I lost myself after you,” I said, my voice trembling. “I lost my job. Lost my peace. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I disappeared from my friends. I left the city because every corner of it reminded me of you.”
Tears slipped down my face now.
“I spent months blaming myself for that one moment of bravery, while you stood there making me feel like it was unforgivable just because I finally fought back.”
Victor’s expression cracked slightly at that.
His eyes watered almost immediately, but he shook his head.
“Did you think it wasn’t hard for me too?” he asked.
I laughed once through my tears. Not because it was funny, but because it hurt.