Page 11

EMMY

The house is quiet. Finally.

Cleo is curled at the foot of the bed, Luca tucked in close against my side like he always is when he knows I need it. The lamp on my nightstand throws a warm pool of light across the room. I don’t turn on the overhead. I don’t need the glare.

Just this.

Just now.

My phone rests on my chest, screen dim, but I know what it says. I’ve already read his message four times.

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 press the screen awake again, just to see it one more time.

And something loosens in my chest.

I didn’t know how much I needed someone to say that. Not with fanfare. Not with a promise too big to believe. Just this. Quiet. Steady. Present.

I type out a reply, then delete it. Type another. Delete again.

Finally:

I’m really glad it was you too.

I hesitate. Thumb above the send button.

Then I tap it.

Send.

My heart pounds for reasons I can’t name.

The dots appear almost immediately. Then disappear. Then come back.

You settled something in me today. Thought you should know that.

I blink, a flutter in my belly, something tender and uncertain blooming behind it—halfway between hope and ache. No one’s ever said anything like that to me. Not without wanting something in return.

I touch the edge of the screen like I might feel it—his steadiness, his certainty. And for a second, I let myself believe he meant it exactly the way it sounds.

I smile, small but real. Not amusement. Just relief. The quiet kind that makes me feel like I belong.

I stare at it for a long second. Then type:

I was nervous. I probably talked too much.

I almost leave it there. But then my thumb moves again.

But… thank you. For letting me.

I hold my breath. Set the phone aside, and curl deeper into the quiet. My fingers twist gently into Luca’s fur.

I keep the phone close.

Just in case.

CAL

I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. Lights off. Just the soft blue glow of the screen against the shadows.

Her message came through not long ago.

I’ve read it more than once. It’s not long. Not elaborate. But it landed right where I feel the most.

She meant it.

And the way it finds its place in me—that quiet certainty—I don’t take that lightly.

I want to say something else. Not because I need to. Because I want to.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I type it out.

Sleep well, sweet girl.

I stare at the words.

Too much, maybe. Too soon. Not because I don’t feel it—God, I do—but because I don’t want to rush the way she unfolds.

Then her next messages come through, while my thumb still hovers over 'send', before pausing entirely.

I was nervous. I probably talked too much.

But… thank you. For letting me.

Something in me goes still.

Not with anger. Not with guilt. Just that sinking quiet—the kind that settles in when someone lets you see how rarely they’ve felt safe enough to simply exist.

She thinks she talked too much.

She thinks just being there—being herself—might’ve been too much.

Fuck, she breaks my heart in the quietest ways.

I want to tell her she could have filled the whole damn day with her voice, and I’d still be listening.

So I do.

You didn’t talk too much.

Then, after a beat,

I could’ve listened for hours.

And I mean every word.

And one last message, because I can’t help myself.

Sleep well, little one.

Then I set the phone down and let the stillness return.

My fingers flex once, like they’re reaching for her without thinking.

And for a long moment, I just breathe and let the quiet hold her name.

Tonight, the quiet doesn’t echo—it holds.

There's a hum beneath it, warmth in my chest where the ache usually sits.

It feels like someone’s on the other end of it.