But she didn’t. And now she’s gone, and I’m here.
And I hate how much that unsettles me.
Not because I don’t trust her. Not because I think anything’s wrong.
But because some twisted part of me wishes I could’ve just asked her to come home with me instead.
Just to stay.
Just to sit on my couch and talk about the night until we both crashed.
Not even to talk about us. Just to be near her. Just to let the night keep going a little longer.
But I know that would’ve been about me.
About my comfort. My fear of being alone. My need to hold things together.
Control.
Always control.
I shower, hoping the hot water will clear my head. It doesn’t.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Toss. Turn.
This isn't just restlessness. This is conviction.
I flip onto my back with a groan.
God, I know what this is. It’s You. You’re calling me out.
I sit up, breathing hard, the tension in my chest thick and aching.
Then I slide off the bed and kneel beside it, resting my elbows on the mattress.
My voice is low. Honest. Tired.
“God…I don’t want to carry this anymore.”
My voice cracks. The weight of everything I've tried to control presses down like bricks.
“I keep trying to manage it all—her feelings, my fear, the pace, the outcome. I say I want to honor You, and I do. But I’ve been holding the pen like it’s mine to write with.”
Silence stretches, but it’s not empty.
“I trust You. Help me live like I do.”
I stay there for a while. No script. No rehearsed prayer. Just presence.
When I finally stand and crawl back into bed, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Ivy’s name is on my screen.
My chest tightens—not from control this time, but surrender.
This isn’t coincidence. It’s grace.
