Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Instead of going straight to my place, I head to the roof.
The roof seems colder than usual. Not terribly, but just enough to remind me how quickly things change and how fast warmth can be replaced by wind.
Here, the air smells sharper, tinged with rain that hasn’t fallen yet.
My fingers tug the cuffs of my dad’s sweatshirt down over my hands, anchoring myself in the only piece of home I have left.
I’m still here. Still solid.
I sit with my back against the low brick wall, knees pulled to my chest, the weight of the sweatshirt hood heavy around my head.
Below me, the bookstore sign hums faintly below, a steady, grounding sound.
The shapes of cars move through the dark streets, headlights washing pale across empty sidewalks.
The town feels far away up here. Removed.
Like I’ve climbed above the consequences of my own choices.
I haven’t.
The sky is heavy tonight; the clouds have rolled back in, and they seem pressed low, as if they’re holding something back.
I tell myself it’s fitting. If the world is going to crack open again, it should at least look like it’s thinking about it.
I don’t cry, which surprises me since my eyes were filled with tears the entire time I was walking back from the park.
I thought I would, I thought I’d break apart the second I was alone.
Instead, I feel stripped. As if something essential were peeled away, I’m left raw but upright.
Breathing. Thinking.
I replay everything, whether I want to or not. His hands, always certain. His voice saying my name like it meant something. The way he stood just slightly in front of me in town, like it was instinct. Like it was practice. A sharp breath leaves me more laughing than sobbing.
“Idiot,” I mutter to myself. Not because I trusted him, but because I trusted how it felt to be wanted without conditions.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring out at the street below.
That’s when I see him. He’s across the street, half in shadow, standing beneath a streetlamp that flickers like it can’t quite decide whether to give him away.
His hands are buried in his pockets, his head tilted up, gaze pinned on me. Watching. Always watching.
My pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Of course, he is still here. Of course, he found me even in silence.
He doesn’t move when I straighten. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t try to come up after me like he has every other time.
He just stands there, still as stone, like he knows exactly where the line is now and refuses to cross it.
The restraint radiates from him. It is almost unbearable, the way he gives me space now, the way he is close enough to see but far enough not to touch. Anger flares hot and fast.
How dare you.
How dare he look at me like I’m something precious he misplaced instead of something he broke.
How dare he still feel like gravity when he’s the reason I’m up here, convincing myself not to fall apart.
I stand abruptly, stepping closer to the edge.
The distance between us shrinks, even though neither of us moves. His gaze locks onto mine.
Even from here, I feel it, the weight of it.
The restraint. The choice he’s making to stay exactly where he is.
Good. Let it hurt. I fold my arms over my chest, lifting my chin.
I want him to see that I’m not wrecked. That I didn’t shatter just because the truth finally caught up to us. His jaw tightens.
The streetlight flickers again.
For one dangerous moment, I consider calling down to him. Saying something cutting. Or worse, honest. Something like, “you don’t get to look at me like that anymore,’ or ‘why wasn’t I enough to deserve the truth?’
Instead, I stay silent. So does he. And in that silence, something settles between us, not peace, not forgiveness, but acknowledgment.
He doesn’t follow me.
He doesn’t leave either.
He stays there, rooted, like if he moves the wrong way, I’ll disappear again.
Maybe I will. Or maybe this is the part where we finally stop pretending either of us was ever meant to walk away clean. I turn from the edge and sit back down, my spine against the brick, eyes lifting to the clouds instead of the man who still knows how to undo me without touching me at all.
Below, I hear his footsteps retreat. I don’t look, not because I don’t care, but because if I do, I might go back to the edge and call his name the wrong way, like a question instead of a boundary.
I might run down the stairs to find him and finally spill the tears I know are there.
But I don’t, I’ve already learned what happens when I let him decide how close is too close.
The roof creaks softly as the wind shifts. I close my eyes and breathe through the ache. I didn’t run to be found. I ran to be free.
The problem is, I don’t yet know which one of us will decide what that means.