Gideon
Iwatch Lara from across the diner, my fingers wrapped around the chipped coffee mug in front of me, though I’m not tasting it. My eyes are locked on her. She’s standing behind the counter, talking with a coworker I recognize as Barb. The sound of her voice still does something to me, even now. Even after everything. It twists my gut, makes my heart tighten, but it also gives me a sense of familiarity, of something I’ve lost and can’t seem to get back.
The way she moves, the way she interacts with the people around her, it’s like she’s already moved on, like she’s already stepped away from everything we were. I don’t know how to stop watching her. There’s a part of me that still wants to walk over, say something, anything, get us back to where we were before everything fell apart. But I know I can’t. I know I don’t have that right anymore.
Delilah is sitting a few booths away from Lara, flipping through a magazine, glancing at her every few seconds. I’m used to her needing attention, needing validation. But something about the way she’s watching Lara tonight is different. There’s an edge to it. Something in her posture is off. I don’t know what it is, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she sits a little too still, like she’s waiting for something.
I notice the way her gaze flickers to me briefly, then she looks away, almost like she’s ashamed. Delilah never looked away before, not from me, not fromanyone. She used to demand attention, crave it. She used to have this confidence that made everyone bend in her direction. Now, she looks broken, like she’s fraying at the edges.
I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand watching her play these games, and I sure as hell can’t stand being stuck in this endless cycle. I need to talk to her. I need to figure this out,
whatever the hell it is that keeps pulling me back to her, to this mess.
I push myself out of the booth and walk to the door, my eyes still on Lara, her laughter fading into the background as I slip out of the diner. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I can’t shake the feeling that if I don’t act now, I’ll never be able to let go.
After standing there for at least half an hour, Delilah finally exits the diner. I follow her down the street, my footsteps heavy behind her. She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s too caught up in her thoughts, her eyes focused on the ground ahead. Her shoulders are slumped, her steps slower than usual. Something in me wants to reach out, to grab her and make her understand, but I don’t know how, not anymore.
I take a deep breath and call out to her. “Delilah.”
She stops, frozen for a moment, before turning slowly to face me. There’s nothing left in her eyes but exhaustion and a strange kind of vulnerability I’ve never seen before. It feels like a thousand miles between us, but here she is, standing in front of me.
“What do you want, Gideon?” she asks, her voice small, quieter than usual.
I stare at her, struggling to put the words together. “I don’t know,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just... I can’t keep pretending. Not anymore. I’m sorry, but I don’t love you. I never did, the way you wanted me to.”
Her lips tremble, and I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she quickly hides it. “I know,” she whispers, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of something else entirely. “I know you don’t love me. I know I messed everything up.”
I shake my head. “No, Delilah. It’s not just that. It’s what you did. You lied to me about Calvin. You manipulated me into believing things about him that weren’t true, and now I can’t look at you the same way. You’ve destroyed too much.”
She takes a step back, her hands shaking slightly, but she doesn’t run. Instead, she stands there, her chin trembling as tears well up in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her face contorts with frustration, her breath shallow.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I, I just wanted someone to love me. I was so scared, Gideon. I didn’t know what to do.”
Her words hit me, but not in the way I expected. It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, vulnerable, raw, completely exposed. And for a second, I hesitate. Not because I forgive her, but because I’m starting to realize I wasn’t the only one who got hurt.
I was the one who let it happen.
The wind rises, sharp and damp, carrying the scent of fried food and wet pavement. A neon sign flickers behind her, splintering her face in fractured light, pink, then blue, then nothing. Her mascara is smudged. Her coat too thin. She looks like a girl who’s run out of places to hide.
And suddenly, I’m back in the kitchen: Lara in the doorway, her wedding dress still zipped in its bag, twisting her ring until the skin beneath turned raw.
“She wore white today,” she said, voice low and steady. “She made a comment about my budget in front of everyone, my sister, the bridesmaids. She smiled while doing it.”
I remember pacing, refusing to meet her eyes. The fridge is humming. Ice clinking in my glass. A dog barking outside, once, twice, then silence.
“She’s not malicious,” I said. “She’s just… complicated.”
Lara didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms and said, “So am I. But I don’t treat people like they’re disposable.”
I said nothing, just tipped my glass and swallowed.
She looked at me like she was waiting for something, anything. And I gave her nothing.
Because I needed Delilah to be complicated. I needed her pain to excuse her cruelty. I needed to believe I was protecting someone fragile, not enabling someone toxic.
And now, standing in the cold, watching Delilah unravel, I see it clearly: I wasn’t protecting her.
I was protecting myself.
