“Because staying means things get complicated,” I said. “And I’m better at exits than maintenance.”
“You ever want to be good at the maintenance part?”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t know.
Because I did.
Too much.
He helpedme finish detangling the lights. Said goodbye without making it a big deal. Left me with half the donuts and a sense of weight in my chest that I didn’t know what to do with.
By the time I went back inside, June had gone to take Lily to the bookstore, and Harper was on the phone with a client in what sounded like a voice three degrees removed from her own.
I slipped upstairs, into the guest room, and pulled out my sketchbook.
I started drawing before I knew what I was making.
Not people. Not yet.
Just… moments.
Two cups on a porch railing.
A hand holding a fork over a table.
Three heads bent toward a string of tangled lights.
Small things.
But they felt like proof.
That I was still here.
That I hadn’t run yet.
That maybe—I didn’t want to.
The sketch took shape without asking permission.
It was bolder than my usual lines—more pressure, less polish. Like my hand knew something I hadn’t caught up to yet. I’d always drawn people from the outside in; profiles, posture, gesture. But this one was different.
It was a woman sitting at a kitchen table.
Alone. Hair loose. Hands wrapped around a mug. You couldn’t see her face, but you knew exactly how she felt.
I stared at it, breath tight.
Because it was me.
And for once, I wasn’t making her funny or cool or beautifully tragic.
Just… human.
Just real.
I went downstairs after that,needing movement. Distraction. Proof that the world was still turning.
