Another pause.
Then I heard her laugh softly — but this wasn’t the easy laugh from earlier. This sounded tired.
“No, that’s the problem,” she said quietly. “Being here reminds me how easy we used to be.”
I froze.
Rain pounded outside while I stood motionless in the dark like an idiot listening to words I knew I probably shouldn’t hear.
“I thought distance would make everything clearer,” she continued. “But sometimes I think we ended things because we were exhausted, not because we stopped loving each other.”
My throat went dry.
The line stayed silent for several seconds before she spoke again.
“No, I’m not saying we should get back together.”
Another silence.
Then very softly:
“I’m saying I don’t think I ever fully let him go.”
I stepped backward immediately, heart hammering so loudly I was terrified she’d hear it through the floorboards.
I went upstairs without the water.
Without making a sound.
And without sleeping for the rest of the night.
By sunrise, the emotional wall I’d spent nearly two years carefully building around myself had a crack running straight through the center of it.
Because the terrifying part wasn’t hearing that she still loved me.
It was realizing I might still love her too.