FIFTY-ONE
CALLUM
Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. Like she doesn’t want the words to land as hard.
But they land like a fist to the chest, knocking the air clean out of me.
My stomach twists. “Jordie . . .”
“I think we should go back to being just friends,” she says quickly, the words tumbling out before they scorch her from the inside. “Without the benefits and everything else that followed after that.”
“So that’s it? After everything—everything—you’re . . .” I gesture helplessly at the space between us. At the invisible thread she’s trying to sever. “You’re just done?”
She flinches, then snaps, voice cracking at the edges. “I’m trying to stop this before—”
“Before what?” I cut in, heat rising in my chest. “Before it gets hard? Before we fight for it, like it matters? Before—”
“Before this gets too complicated!”
“Why does it have to be complicated?!”
“Because people leave, Callum. And they take pieces of you when they go. And I’m—” She presses a hand to her chest, like it’s splintering there. “I’m tired of being in pieces.”
I step closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
“They all mean it.”
“I’m not them, Jordie!” I snap.
I catch myself. Soften. Lean in. Cup her face, make her look me in the eyes. “I am not everyone.”
Her eyes flick up, brimming. “I don’t want you to regret me.”
“Why would I ever regret—?”
She lets out a jagged laugh. Then she stands, pacing like the words are chasing her.
“Oh, I don’t know, Callum. Maybe when you take me back to Sydney and reintroduce me to your super-traditional Chinese parents as your super-white girlfriend who, by the way, is also super-infertile.
” Her voice cracks, but she pushes through, hands pressed to her chest like she’s physically holding herself together. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I say without thinking. It’s immediate. Reflexive. But even I can hear the doubt in it—thin, breakable.
“Am I?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Tell me you’ll be fine watching your friends post baby scans while we get a second dog.
That you’ll be okay telling your dad about another failed IVF round while he’s kept red envelopes in a drawer for every grandkid he already knows the name of.
That you’ll be alright watching your mother light incense on our wedding day and knowing there won’t be a little girl to teach the prayers to. ”
Her words hit hard. Like she’s already rehearsed this, mourned it, lived through it a thousand different ways before saying it aloud.
“If you can live with that. If you’re absolutely sure. Then I’ll stay,” she says. “And we’ll be together. But if you can’t . . .”
She swallows. And I see it—the moment she folds in on herself.
“ . . . then we end this now.”
My heart’s thudding so loud it feels like it’s in my throat.
“Jordie, I don’t care about any of that.”
The words come out too fast. Too easy. But the second they’re out, I feel the tremble under them. Because I do care. Not about the expectations. Not about the traditions. But about what it means.
It means I’ll always be walking a tightrope. Between what I want and what I was raised to want. Between the family I love, and the woman I can’t stop loving.
Jordie sees it. Hears it. The hollowness behind my words. Like she’s found the hairline fracture in my resolve.
“One day, you will,” she says quietly. “You’ll look at me and this will all matter. The time. The chances. The life you could’ve had with someone else. Someone who could . . .” She trails off, the words scattering like glass. “Someone who could give you the family you deserve.”
“You don’t get to decide what I deserve!” My voice is raw around the edges now, coming apart. “And you don’t get to decide what my parents think, or what the future looks like, or—”
“I have to decide for us because you’re choosing me! And you shouldn’t!” she cries. “I’m trying to save us. Don’t you see that?”
“Save us from what?” I demand.
“From becoming something you hate!” Her hands fly to her chest. “You’ll resent me, Callum. And I’ll never forgive myself for allowing you choose me over everything you’re meant to have.”
I stare at her. At the girl who’s always been unflinchingly brave, who now looks like she’s holding her heart together with string.
I want to argue. I want to promise her the world. But she’s not asking for promises.
She’s asking for the truth.
A truth I’ve never let myself sit with. Never looked it in the eye because I was too afraid of what it might cost me.
“I should go,” she says softly.
She grabs her bag. Calm. Measured. Like she hasn’t just gutted both of us.
I can’t watch her leave. I turn away. My hands clench at my sides.
“Jordie,” I say, voice cracking. “I want you.”
There’s a beat of silence. One second. Two. A breath of hope.
Then I hear it. The click of the lock. The creak of the door.
Her voice follows, quiet but certain. “But I’m not the one you need.”