The first few weeks were good.
The kind of good that didn't need big gestures or constant reassurance.
We saw each other on weekends.
Sometimes she'd bring over pastries—almond croissants still warm from her oven.
I'd make coffee and try not to burn it.
She'd sit on my couch like she'd always belonged there,
legs curled under her, asking about the books on my shelves like they held clues to who I was.
And I'd ask about the people in her life. Her brother. Her coworker who always mixed up salt and sugar.
We didn't need drama. We had honesty.
⸻
But I wasn't always present.
Not really.
Some nights I cancelled because work "ran late."
Some mornings I forgot to reply until hours later.
Sometimes I'd stare at her while she spoke and still feel far away.
It wasn't intentional. But it was real.
There was still a part of me that wanted to run when things got quiet—when someone got too close.
Because silence made me hear my own guilt.
And her kindness made me wonder if I even deserved it.
One night, she said it gently.
"Are you okay?"
I nodded. "Just tired."
She didn't push.
She just scooted closer and laid her head on my shoulder.