Taking Space for Me

I was ten years old the night my father left, which felt old enough to understand what was happening and young enough to believe it might still be undone.

I remember the way the house sounded before the argument started. Not quiet, exactly, but held. Like it was waiting for something to tip it one way or the other. The television murmured in the living room. A commercial about trucks or pills or something grown-up enough that I knew I wasn’t supposed to care. The clock above the stove ticked too loudly, each second marking time like it mattered.

I was on my bed, knees tucked tight to my chest, picking at the paint on the window ledge.

The paint had been white once, but now it was tired. It cracked easily under my thumbnail, curling away in thin strips that reminded me of dried glue. I liked peeling it. It was something I could do slowly. Something that came off clean if I was careful. Beneath it, the wood was smooth and warm, yellowed with age, like it remembered a version of the house before everything was layered over and sealed shut.

Outside my window, Cedar Ridge was settling into evening.

Porch lights blinked on one by one down the street, like a line of quiet acknowledgments. A pickup truck passed, tires whispering against the road. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then stopped, as if someone had called its name. The town always did this at night. Folded in on itself. Content to stay exactly where it was.

I wasn’t supposed to be listening.

But the walls in our house were thin, and the truth had a way of finding gaps.

“I can’t do this anymore,” my father said.

His voice cut through the house sharp and sudden, like the snap of something pulled too tight. I froze with a sliver of paint caught under my nail. I didn’t know whatthiswas exactly, but I knew it lived here. In the narrow kitchen. In the way my parents stopped looking at each other when they thought I wasn’t watching. In the way my dad always seemed halfway out the door even when he was sitting at the table.

“You always say that,” my mom said.

Her voice was quieter, steadier. It wasn’t weak. It was practiced. She’d learned how to speak in a way that didn’t invite more damage. Even then, I could hear the way she softened the edges of her words, rounded them off so they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“You say it when you’re tired,” she went on. “You say it when things get hard.”

“Iamtired,” he snapped. “I’m tired of this place. I’m tired of waking up every day and feeling like my life already ended.”

I pictured him standing at the counter, one hand braced against the laminate, the other rubbing his forehead. His shoulders would be tight, hunched forward, like he was already carrying something heavy that he planned to drop. My father always looked like he was bracing himself for disappointment. Like he expected the world to fall short and wanted to be gone before it did.

“You have a life,” my mom said. “You have a family.”

There was a laugh then. Short. Sharp. It didn’t sound like laughter. It sounded like something breaking free.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

The words that followed blurred together. They rose and fell, crashing into each other in a way I didn’t know how to sort through. Responsibility. Opportunity. Stuck. I heard my name once, but not the way people said your name when they wanted you to come closer. The way they said it when they were explaining something away.

I peeled another strip of paint from the ledge and rolled it between my fingers. It flaked apart easily, leaving dust on my palm.

“You’re being selfish,” my mom said. Her voice wavered just slightly, like a crack she was trying to smooth over before anyone noticed.

“I’ve spent my whole life being responsible,” my dad said. “I get to want something for myself.”

I didn’t know then what wanting something for yourself could cost. I didn’t know that sometimes it sounded like freedom and felt like abandonment at the same time. I didn’t know that responsibility could be another word for staying when you didn’t want to anymore.

The argument slowed. The words thinned out. For a moment, I thought maybe this was the part where it turned. Where he would sigh and sit down and rub his face and say he didn’t mean it. Where my mom would tell him they could figure it out, and he would believe her.

Instead, there was silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The waiting kind.

I held my breath without realizing it.

Then I heard the drawer in the hallway slide open.

The keys.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. I slid off the bed and pressed my ear to the door, the carpet burning against my cheek.

“I’m just going to stay somewhere else for a while,” my father said.

“For how long?” my mom asked.

The pause that followed felt like standing at the edge of something deep and not knowing how far down it went.

“I don’t know.”

I waited for her to say something big. Something loud enough to reach me through the walls. Something that would make him stop.

She didn’t.

“Okay,” she said instead.

That word felt heavier than anything else she’d said all night. Like she’d placed it down carefully so it wouldn’t shatter.

The front door opened.

Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of damp pavement and pine. The kind of cold that felt clean and sharp and final. Then the door closed again.

The house didn’t echo. It didn’t protest.

It just went still.

I waited for my mom to cry. She usually did after the shouting stopped. I waited for the sound of it to break through the quiet. It never came.

Instead, I heard her moving around the kitchen. The soft clink of a glass against the counter. The scrape of a chair being pushed back into place. Ordinary sounds that felt too loud now that nothing was fighting with them.

I went back to my bed and sat by the window.

The streetlight flickered on, bathing the yard in pale yellow. Everything looked calm from there. Like a picture someone might frame and hang on the wall. Like nothing had just broken open inside the house behind me.

I pressed my thumb into the ledge and scraped off the last loose bit of paint. It left a pale, bare mark behind. A place where something had been.

I thought I should feel sadder than I did.

I loved my dad. I knew that. I knew the scratch of his beard against my cheek when he hugged me. The way he let me sit on the counter while he flipped pancakes on Sunday mornings, humming under his breath. But underneath that love was something else, something quieter and harder to name.

Relief.

The fighting would stop now.

The house would be quiet.

I didn’t know yet that quiet could stretch. That it could hollow things out. That it could teach you how to listen too closely for footsteps that never came.

That night, I learned something without realizing it.

I learned that love could leave.

I learned that wanting too much might make people go.

And I learned, quietly and completely, that if you wanted someone to stay, you had to take up less space. You had to smooth the sharp parts of yourself. You had to make it easy.

So I did.

My father did not come back the next morning.

I woke up before my alarm, the way I always did when something felt unfinished. The house was quiet in a different way now. Not held. Not waiting. Just empty.

For a moment, lying there with my eyes still closed, I thought maybe the night before had been a bad dream. Maybe I would hear his footsteps in the hallway or the low hum of his voice in the kitchen. Maybe the quiet would crack open and spill him back into the house.

It didn’t.

The quiet stayed where it was.

I got out of bed and padded down the hall, my socks sliding on the worn carpet. His shoes were gone from the mat by the door. The jacket he always reached for first was missing from the hook. The space where he used to stand had already started to cool.

My mom was in the kitchen, standing at the counter with her back to me. She wore the same sweatshirt she’d had on the night before. Her hair was pulled into a low knot that hadn’t been redone. The coffee pot gurgled softly, finishing its cycle.

She didn’t turn when I came in.

“Morning,” I said.

My voice sounded too loud in the quiet.

She flinched. Just a little.

“Oh,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Morning, honey.”

She poured coffee into her mug, careful not to spill a drop. Her hands moved with precision, like if she kept them busy enough, they wouldn’t shake.

I sat at the table and watched her. Watched the way she stayed facing the counter. Watched the way she didn’t look at the empty chair.

“Is Dad coming back?” I asked.

The question had been sitting in my chest since the night before, heavy and unmoving. Saying it out loud felt like setting it down carefully, hoping it wouldn’t break.

My mom paused. Just long enough for me to notice.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Not today.”

“Did I do something wrong?” The words came out before I could stop them.

She turned then. Really turned. Her face looked older in the morning light, like something had been pulled tight overnight and left that way.

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, crossing the kitchen in two steps. She knelt in front of me, hands warm on my knees. “No, baby. This isn’t because of you. None of this is because of you.”

I nodded, even though the knot in my chest didn’t loosen.

She hugged me, pressing my face into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. I could smell coffee and soap and the faintest trace of lemon cleaner. Her arms were tight around me, like she was afraid I might slip away too.

That was the first time I realized something else.

She was holding on now.

The days after that moved slowly, like the house was relearning its own shape.

My mom went back to work. She always did. Nursing shifts that started before the sun came up and ended after it had already decided to leave. She packed my lunches the night before, labeling the brown bags with my name even though I was the only one who ate them. She paid bills at the kitchen table late at night, papers spread out carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She stopped singing while she cooked.

That was the first thing I noticed.

She used to hum under her breath when she stirred pots or flipped pancakes, little half-melodies that never went anywhere but filled the space anyway. After my dad left, the kitchen stayed quiet. Functional. Efficient.

I learned to listen for her car in the driveway.

I learned to read the sound of her keys. The way she set her bag down told me what kind of night it had been. If she sighed first, I stayed out of her way. If she didn’t, I followed her into the kitchen and asked about her day.

I learned when to talk and when to disappear.

When my dad called, which wasn’t often at first, my mom would take the phone into the bedroom and close the door. I sat on the floor in the hallway, my back against the wall, listening to the rise and fall of her voice through the door.

Sometimes she cried. Quietly. Like she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone with it.

Other times, she didn’t say much at all.

I started bringing her tissues before she asked.

She smiled at me when I did that, a small, tired smile that felt like a reward.

“Thank you,” she’d say. “You’re such a good girl.”

I liked being good.

Good felt safe.

At school, people started treating me differently.

Teachers spoke more softly, like they were afraid of startling me. Other kids asked questions they didn’t really want answers to.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Did he move?”

“My mom says your parents are getting divorced.”

I learned which questions to shrug off and which ones to answer with something small and smooth.

“He’s working somewhere else.”

“He’s just gone for a bit.”

I learned that the simpler the answer, the faster people stopped asking.

When I got home, I did my homework without being told. I cleaned my room even when it didn’t need it. I kept my voice low. I made myself useful.

If my mom looked tired, I didn’t ask for help with math. If she looked sad, I told her about something funny that happened at school. If she looked angry, I stayed in my room and peeled paint from the window ledge until my fingers were dusty and numb.

The ledge grew smoother with time.

So did I.

My dad sent postcards from places that didn’t look like Cedar Ridge.

Big skies. New buildings. Roads that looked like they went somewhere. He wrote about the weather and the food and how busy he was. He never wrote about missing us.

I kept the postcards in a shoebox under my bed, stacked neatly, like if I organized them enough, they might make sense.

My mom read them once and then set them face down on the counter.

“He’s doing okay,” she said, like that was supposed to mean something.

I nodded.

I learned not to ask when he was coming home.

At night, lying in bed, I replayed the argument in my head.

Not the whole thing. Just the parts I understood.

I wondered if my mom had said the wrong thing. If she had been too quiet. Too loud. If she should have asked him to stay harder.

I wondered if I had been too much.

If my existence had felt like responsibility to him. If wanting him to come home made me selfish too.

I promised myself things in the dark.

I promised I would be easy.

I promised I would never make anyone feel trapped.

I promised I would learn how to stay without being asked.

One night, weeks later, my mom came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“I need you to be a little patient with me,” she said. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked smaller sitting there, like the weight of the world had finally pressed her down.

“I am,” I said quickly.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I know you are,” she said. “You always are.”

She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “You’re such a good girl.”

The words settled into me.

Good meant quiet.Good meant helpful.Good meant not asking for too much.

Good meant staying.

Years later, I would learn that love didn’t require shrinking.

But at ten years old, watching my mother fold herself into the shape of survival, I learned something else entirely.

I learned that love was something you managed.

That if you paid close enough attention, if you anticipated needs before they were spoken, if you smoothed the sharp edges before they cut anyone, you could keep people from leaving.

And if they did leave anyway, at least you could tell yourself you hadn’t been the reason.

So I practiced.

I became very good at it.

By middle school, I had learned how to disappear without actually going anywhere.

It wasn’t something anyone taught me outright. It happened slowly, the way habits do. The way you stop noticing them because they start to feel like part of your body. Like breathing. Like knowing when to duck before something hits you.

Middle school hallways were loud in a way that felt personal. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked against tile. Laughter ricocheted off the walls and landed wherever it wanted. Cedar Ridge Middle wasn’t big, but it felt crowded, like everyone was constantly brushing up against each other’s edges.

I learned early which edges to soften.

It started in seventh grade, in science class, when Mrs. Callahan asked a question about the water cycle. I knew the answer. I had studied the night before, my notebook spread across the kitchen table while my mom worked a double shift. I’d quizzed myself quietly, tapping my pencil against the paper, feeling proud in a way I didn’t let myself feel very often.

My hand went up before I could stop it.

“Yes, Brie?” Mrs. Callahan said.

“Evaporation,” I said. “It’s when—”

A boy two rows over snorted.

I stopped mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” I said automatically. “I mean—when water turns into vapor.”

The class laughed, not loudly, not cruelly. Just enough to let me know I’d misstepped.

Mrs. Callahan nodded and kept going, but something had already shifted.

I hadn’t needed to say sorry.

But it had smoothed the moment over. Taken the edge off. Made it easier for everyone to move on.

That mattered more than being right.

By eighth grade, sorry had started to live on my tongue.

I said it when I bumped into someone in the hallway, even if they had bumped into me. I said it when I answered questions too quickly. When I spoke too softly. When I laughed too loud.

“Sorry,” I’d say, smiling a little, like it was nothing.

LikeIwas nothing.

No one told me to stop.

In fact, people seemed to like me more because of it.

There was a girl named Megan who sat next to me in English. She had shiny hair and perfect handwriting and always smelled like strawberries. We weren’t best friends, but we were close enough that people assumed we were.

One afternoon, we were assigned a group project. Megan looked at me, then at the other girls at the table.

“I don’t really want to do the presentation part,” she said. “I get nervous.”

“I can do it,” I said quickly.

“Oh my gosh, really?” she said, relieved. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry—I mean, yeah. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

I hated standing in front of the class. My hands shook. My voice went thin. But Megan smiled at me afterward and squeezed my arm, and that felt like something worth keeping.

I learned then that apologizing made people comfortable.

And comfort kept people close.

The day it fully cemented itself was during lunch.

The cafeteria smelled like pizza and bleach, the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes. I sat at the end of a table with Megan and two other girls, my tray balanced carefully in front of me.

I reached for my milk and knocked over Megan’s juice instead.

Orange liquid spread across the table, dripping onto the floor.

“Oh my God,” I said immediately. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry.”

Megan blinked at me, surprised.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It was an accident.”

“I’ll clean it up,” I said, already grabbing napkins. “I’m really sorry.”

“I said it’s fine,” she repeated, laughing a little.

But I kept apologizing anyway. As I wiped the table. As I crouched to mop the floor with paper towels. As a lunch aide walked by and frowned at the mess.

“I’m sorry,” I told her too. “That was my fault.”

She waved me off.

Something strange happened then.

The girls watched me.

Not unkindly. Not cruelly.

Just... silently.

I realized, kneeling there on the cafeteria floor with my hands sticky and my cheeks burning, that no one was helping.

They didn’t need to.

I had already taken care of it.

That afternoon, Megan didn’t sit next to me in English.

She smiled at me in the hallway, waved even, but she chose a seat next to someone else. Someone louder. Someone easier.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

But something lodged in my chest anyway.

At home that night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced smiling.

Not a big smile. Just enough. Soft. Approachable. The kind that saidI won’t cause trouble.

I practiced saying sorry quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

It sounded right.

Over time, I learned when to apologize before anyone asked.

When I interrupted someone, even if they had interrupted me first.When I needed clarification.When I wanted something.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

“I’m sorry, this might be a dumb question—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be annoying—”

Each apology shaved something down inside me. Something sharp. Something true.

But it worked.

Teachers liked me. Friends stayed near me. Adults called me polite and mature and easy.

Easy was the highest compliment.

One afternoon, my mom picked me up late from school.

She was exhausted, scrubs wrinkled, eyes shadowed. I climbed into the passenger seat quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “I know you’re tired.”

She looked at me, surprised.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I nodded, staring out the window.

But the apology had already done its job.

It had made the moment smoother. Lighter. Easier for her.

That mattered.

By the time I reached high school, sorry came before almost everything else.

It cushioned my words.Rounded my edges.Made me agreeable.

It made me the kind of girl people didn’t leave.

I didn’t realize yet what it was costing me.

Only that every time I said it, something inside me stepped a little farther back, making room for everyone else.

And I told myself that was love.

By high school, I had learned the difference between wanting something and letting anyone know.

Wanting was private. Careful. It stayed folded inside me like a note I never passed.

This particular want started small, the way they all did.

It was junior year, early fall, when the mornings still smelled like cut grass and the air felt like it was trying something new. The guidance counselor had taped a flyer outside her office, the edges curling where the tape had lost its grip.

Creative Writing WorkshopAfter school. Thursdays.

I stopped every time I passed it.

Not long enough for anyone to notice. Just long enough to read it again. To imagine myself sitting in a classroom that didn’t smell like disinfectant or cafeteria pizza. To imagine writing something that didn’t have a right answer.

I liked words. I liked the way they could hold things quietly. I liked the way writing felt like making room.

I had never said that out loud.

I found my boyfriend, Matthew, leaning against his locker that afternoon, one foot propped against the metal, laughing with one of his friends. He looked comfortable there, like the hallway belonged to him. Like he’d always known where to stand.

We met when we were fifteen. He sat behind me in chemistry and borrowed my pencil every day, even though he always had one. He smiled easily. Took up space like the world was built to hold him. His family owned half the new developments on the edge of town.

“Hey,” he said when he saw me, grinning effortlessly.

“Hey,” I said back.

We walked toward the exit together, backpacks bumping against our sides. Outside, the parking lot buzzed with engines and voices, the end-of-day chaos settling into something looser.

“I was thinking,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Dangerous.”

I smiled automatically. “Yeah.”

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“There’s this thing,” I started. “After school. On Thursdays.”

“What thing?”

I swallowed. “A writing workshop.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Like... an extra class?”

“Kind of,” I said quickly. “It’s not for a grade or anything. Just—” I shrugged. “Something different.”

He nodded slowly, already distracted, scanning the lot for someone he knew.

“Thursdays?” he repeated. “That’s when my parents usually want me home for dinner. Or when we hang out.”

“Oh,” I said. The word came out softer than I meant it to.

He looked back at me then. “I mean, if you want to do it, that’s fine. I just figured we’d probably be together.”

We.

The word pressed down on the thought before it could rise any further.

“I don’t really need to,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You sure?” he asked. Not unkindly. Not carefully either.

“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. “Sorry. I just thought it sounded interesting.”

He smiled, relieved. “You always find the weirdest stuff interesting.”

It wasn’t meant to hurt.

It still did.

That Thursday, I walked past the classroom anyway.

The door was open. A handful of students sat in a loose circle, notebooks open, talking softly. I could hear laughter, low and unguarded. The teacher, someone I didn’t know, leaned against the desk, listening instead of lecturing.

I slowed without meaning to.

I could see an empty chair.

The hallway clock ticked loudly above me, counting down to the moment where I would either step inside or keep going.

I thought about Matthew waiting for me at his car.About my mom working a double shift.About how crowded my life already felt with obligations I didn’t name as such.

I thought about the way my father had wanted something more and left to get it.

The doorframe felt like a line I wasn’t allowed to cross.

I kept walking.

That night, I sat at my desk and opened a notebook anyway.

The page stared back at me, white and waiting.

I didn’t know what to write without permission.

So I wrote my homework instead.

Weeks later, the flyer was gone.

I noticed the absence more than I’d noticed the paper itself. Like a quiet had moved into that space. Like something had closed.

Matthew never asked about the workshop again. He didn’t need to. The choice had already been made.

Matthew’s house always smelled like effort.

Not the kind you could see, but the kind that lingered. Warm bread. Garlic. Something roasted long enough to be impressive. Everything had its place, and everything looked like it belonged there.

I stood at the sink in the guest bathroom before dinner, smoothing my hair for longer than necessary. I practiced the smile I knew would be useful. Not too wide. Not too flat. The one that said I was grateful to be included.

When I stepped into the dining room, the table was already set. Real plates. Cloth napkins folded just so. Candles lit even though the sun was still visible through the windows.

Evelynn Salustiano beamed when she saw me. “There you are.”

Evelynn wore her silver-streaked dark hair in a smooth French twist, not a strand out of place. Her smile reached her eyes when she looked at you, head tilted just so, as if waiting for you to prove yourself worthy of the Waterford crystal glasses she’d set out for a Thursday dinner. She kissed my cheek lightly, like I was fragile or valuable or both. “Sit, sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Matthew pulled out my chair before I could reach for it myself.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Of course,” he replied, like it was automatic.

That was Matthew. He pulled out my chair, offered his jacket when I shivered, remembered to ask about my mom’s schedule. The way his hand found the small of my back in crowded rooms made me feel chosen, anchored in a world that often forgot I was there. These gestures—reliable as sunrise—became the scaffolding I built my certainty around.

We sat. His dad poured wine for the adults, water for us. He asked Matthew about football practice. About colleges. About the future in a way that assumed it would bend toward him naturally.

“And you, Brie?” his mom asked, turning to me with interest that felt polite, not curious. “How are your classes going?”

“They’re good,” I said. “Busy.”

She nodded approvingly. “That’s good. Keeps you out of trouble.”

Matthew laughed. I smiled.

“What are you thinking of studying?” she asked. “Long term.”

I hesitated. The real answer rose up instinctively.

Writing.

It sat right behind my teeth, warm and wanting.

Instead, I said, “Probably something practical. Maybe nursing.”

My mom’s profession hung between us like a bridge I was expected to cross.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said immediately. “Such a stable career.”

Matthew’s dad nodded. “Always work for nurses.”

Matthew squeezed my knee under the table.

“See?” he said. “She’s smart.”

I felt something settle into place. Approval. Safety.

The real answer sank back down.

Dinner moved easily after that.

Matthew talked about schools he was considering. His parents chimed in, discussing campuses and cities like they were menu options. I listened. I nodded. I asked questions that showed interest but not intrusion.

“And wherever Matthew goes,” his mom said, glancing between us, “you’ll be right there too, won’t you?”

The room seemed to pause, waiting for my answer.

I felt the weight of it then. The way futures could be decided in moments like this, over roasted chicken and candlelight.

“Yes,” I said.

It came out soft. Easy.

“Of course.”

She smiled, satisfied. “That’s nice.”

Nice meant agreeable.Nice meant uncomplicated.Nice meant I fit.

On the drive home, Matthew reached for my hand.

“They like you,” he said. “A lot.”

“I like them too,” I said.

He smiled. “You fit really well with us.”

The word fit landed gently. Comfortably.

“I try,” I said.

He squeezed my hand once, then let go to shift gears.

“You’ll love wherever we end up,” he added casually. “You’re good at adjusting.”

I watched the streetlights blur past the window, each one marking time.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

I didn’t yet know how much I’d given up without ever being asked.

Only that everyone seemed pleased.

And that, I’d learned, was the safest way to be loved.

My mother still wakes up at four-thirty every morning.

Even now.

I hear her moving through the house before my alarm goes off, careful and practiced. She doesn’t turn on lights she doesn’t need. She doesn’t make noise she can avoid. Years of night shifts and early mornings have taught her how to move through the world without asking it for space.

She’s a nurse. She’s always been a nurse. Cedar Ridge didn’t offer much, but it had a hospital, and my mom took what was there and made a life out of endurance.

“Morning, baby,” she says softly when she sees me in the kitchen, already dressed in her scrubs, coffee cup warming her hands.

“Morning.”

She kisses my temple, quick and familiar, and then she’s gone, keys in hand, the door closing gently behind her.

I sit at the small table and eat cereal out of a chipped bowl, the kind you keep because it still works even though it shouldn’t. Outside, Cedar Ridge wakes slowly. Same roads. Same storefronts. Same people who know your story before you tell it.

By the time I’m in college, everyone already knows who I am.

Brie Evans.The nurse’s daughter.The girl who works the register at the fast-food place off Route 9.Matthew’s girlfriend.

Matthew has been part of my life for so long that sometimes it feels like he grew there, like one of the oak trees lining the football field. Solid. Expected. Unmoving.

Being with Matthew felt like stepping into something finished.

I work evenings at the restaurant, grease clinging to my clothes while I study between shifts. Matthew doesn’t work. He doesn’t need to. His parents send money. Mine sends reminders to eat.

Sometimes I cancel plans because my manager needs coverage. Sometimes I miss study groups because I’m closing. Matthew tells me it’s fine.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You’re doing what you have to do.”

I don’t notice yet that he never rearranges his life for mine.

Tonight, we’re at dinner with his parents. Their house smells like wine and rosemary and things that take time. His mom asks about my classes like she’s checking boxes.

“So what are you thinking of doing after graduation?” she asks.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say.

Matthew reaches for my hand beneath the table, squeezing once. “We’ll figure it out.”

We.

Later, driving back through the familiar streets of Cedar Ridge, Matthew talks about internships and connections and places we might go.

“You’ll love wherever we end up,” he says. “You’re good at adjusting.”

I watch the streetlights blur past the window.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”