Page 10

CAL

I watch her ride until I can’t.

Until the trees take her.

The last of the sun catches in her hair, a flicker of gold as she rounds the bend, and then she’s gone.

The air settles around me.

Quiet again.

But not the same.

I don’t go inside. Not right away.

I stand there for a long time. Mug still warm in my hand. The faint trace of her still in the air—clean cotton and a hint of warmth, like something soft lingering at the edge of thought.

My thumb runs slow over the curve of the ceramic.

Not thinking. Just… grounding. The mug’s still half-full.

She didn’t finish it. There’s something in the way that warmth lingers, like she left it on purpose.

Like maybe some part of her wanted to stay, even if she couldn’t say it aloud.

The half-left tea feels like a presence.

Like a promise. Like hope I don’t quite dare name.

She packed up so carefully. Too carefully.

Like she didn’t want to take up space, even after I told her she could stay.

Like she still thought she might’ve misread everything.

And next time—I’m going to make sure there’s a next time—I want to be clearer.

I want to say the words that don't leave her guessing.

But she didn’t.

God, she didn’t.

I’ve spent years building quiet. Protecting it. Earning it. Brick by brick, silence by silence. People don’t realize silence can be armor.

But she walked right into it. Not like a trespasser. Like she belonged.

Tea. Fudge. The smallest smile I’ve ever seen carry that much weight.

She laughed like she didn’t know laughter had power.

Like she didn’t know it was rare. And when she did, something inside me shifted—deep and low, like a quiet quake under still ground.

It hit somewhere I thought was long gone.

Stirred something I didn’t know I’d been missing.

And for the first time in a long time. I didn’t want to be alone with the quiet.

I wanted her in it.

She thinks I didn’t mean it. The number. The words.

But the truth is, I’ve never meant anything more.

She doesn’t even know how being near her quiets the noise I didn’t know was still there. How she centers me just by staying. How the smallest glimpse of her—on a bike, on a porch, with soft eyes and shaking fingers—feels like the whole world tipped just a little back into place.

Like something that had been wound too tight finally let go. And the steadier she makes me, the more I want to be that for her. To show up in the quiet, in the gaps where no one ever stayed long enough to matter. I want her to know that if she reaches again, I’ll be there. No hesitation, no flinch.

The wind shifts. Cool against the back of my neck. Reminds me the world keeps moving, even when I’d like to pause it right here.

I go inside eventually. But I don’t turn on the lights. Don’t wash the mug. I just sit at the table, phone face down, hands loose in my lap.

The kitchen is sparse. Like the rest of the house. It’s not cold—it’s just… simple. Intentional. Clean lines. No clutter. Everything has a place. That kind of order used to calm me. Used to be enough.

Now it feels hollow.

The room’s too still. Like it’s waiting for a sound it’s not used to hearing.

Her voice.

A long while passes.

Then—

Ding.

I flip the phone.

One new message.

From a number I don’t know—but I know who it is.

I don’t know if I’m saying the right thing. But thank you. For today. For everything.

My chest tightens.

And just like that, the quiet doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

I stare at her message for a long time. My thumb hovers over the screen. I could say too much. Or not enough.

But when I type, it’s none of those things.

Today was good. I’m glad it was me you shared it with. You can reach out anytime. No wrong way to do it. I’ll be here.

I hit send. Let the words go. No second-guessing.

Because with her, I move without second-guessing.

I don’t care if it’s too much. Don’t care if I wear it plain on my sleeve.

She’s soft, and good, and doesn’t even see it.

And she deserves to know someone’s steady for her in every way that matters.

In the words, in the silence, in the way I’d shoulder every weight she thinks she has to carry alone.

In the way I’d remind her—again and again if I had to—that soft doesn’t mean weak, and needing someone doesn’t make her a burden,

I set the phone down on the table beside the still-warm mug she used. I haven’t rinsed it. Not yet. Some part of me wants to see it there tomorrow morning, just as it is.

That mug’s going to stay put awhile.

The house is quiet, clean, and there’s nothing that needs fixing. The kind of order that used to feel like control, like peace.

It used to be enough.

But now the quiet feels thinner, like the air itself remembers her weight, her warmth. The way she sat on the steps. The way her voice softened around her words, like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be heard.

She does.

She always did.

She softened the quiet, turned it into something that felt lived-in instead of lonely.

She left something in the air. A sweetness. A calm.

Something I didn’t know I’d been starved for until it was here.

I walk to the window and lean one hand on the frame, watching the last of the sun bleed off the ridge. Everything is still. The trees sway just enough to catch the wind. The light breaks in gold streaks through the pines.

I don’t need noise. Don’t want it.

But I’d take her voice again in a heartbeat. The way she says things like she’s afraid of tipping the balance, even though her presence is the thing that steadies it.

She’s not a disruption.

She’s the calm I didn’t know I needed.

I could build a thousand days like today and never get tired of it.

I look down at the phone again.

And for the first time in a long while—I hope it lights up again soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe late tonight.

Doesn’t matter.

I’ll be here.