This whole thing started to fall apart the moment I said yes last week to a man who would have made everything easy. Proper dinners. Clear sentences. Weekends you could actually plan. I could already hear my mother’s voice in my head, relieved at last. A sensible choice.

Then two days later, I caught myself texting you, asking if you wanted to stop by for the book you’d left at my place months ago. You knew right away it wasn’t about the book. That was always the problem with you. You understood too much from almost nothing.

You were never mine, and I was never yours. Still, you knew those small, telling things my body does before I admit anything out loud. The way I stall. The way I start talking too much when there’s something real I’m trying not to say. The way my voice drops when I’m already halfway gone.

You sat down across from me, and I told you this couldn’t keep going like this. That it had to move in some direction. That I couldn’t stay in something this good if it had no name, no promise, no future.

You listened without interrupting. No argument, no defense. You just asked whether it was really the missing future that bothered me, or whether what scared me more was how, with you, I always knew exactly what I wanted.

I couldn’t answer that. Not right away.

I got up as if I were going to get some water, but I only made it to the window. I heard you come after me. You didn’t touch me at first. That made it worse. Then your hand settled at my waist like it belonged there, like my body had made its decision a long time ago and my mind was still trying to negotiate terms.

When I turned toward you, you didn’t kiss me right away. First you looked at me in that slow, steady way that made my mouth go dry. Then, so quietly I felt it more than heard it, you said you had never denied me a promise. Only a lie.

The book stayed where it was.

And so did you.