Staying
339 Words
Friday came with rain.
The kind that softened the world, slowed footsteps, blurred edges. Tamara watched it from the window as the children napped, feeling the same internal stillness. She had expected distance to bring clarity. Instead, it had sharpened everything.
When he knocked lightly on the doorframe, she didn’t jump this time.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
She nodded.
They didn’t speak at first. Rain tapped against the glass. A child turned over in their sleep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said eventually.
Her gaze stayed forward. “I know.”
“That’s not me pressuring you.” He shifted, careful. “That’s me choosing to stay.”
She finally looked at him. “And if staying hurts?”
“Then I’ll manage it.”
The simplicity of his answer undid her more than any declaration could have.
“I don’t trust timing,” she confessed quietly. “Every time I have, it’s failed me.”
He considered that. “Then don’t trust timing. Trust intention.”
She swallowed. “Yours?”
“Ours,” he corrected gently. “If you let there be one.”
The space between them felt different now—not tense, not charged, just open. He wasn’t reaching for her. He wasn’t leaning in. He was waiting.
That, she realized, was the hardest part.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of the day, neither of them moved right away.
“I’m still keeping my distance,” she said, almost apologetically.
He smiled, soft and genuine. “I know.”
“And you’re still… here.”
“Yes.”
She stood, shouldering her bag. At the door, she paused. “Thank you,” she said. “For not rushing me.”
He met her eyes. “Thank you for not pushing me away.”
They walked out separately, the rain easing as if in approval.
No kiss.
Just the quiet understanding that something was growing anyway—slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
And for now, that was enough.
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