Dos’s Point of View
The morning after I asked her, the apartment was too quiet.
She hadn’t answered me. Not really. Not with words.
I laid there that night listening to her breathing, feeling the silence between us expand like a bruise. I could feel the weight of everything I wanted to say pressing against my chest, but I knew—I had to give her space.
She wasn’t mine to demand anything from. I could only ask. Hope.
And wait.
But waiting was dangerous. Waiting gave your heart too much time to think.
I was already dressed by sunrise. The coffee machine purred softly in the kitchen as I stood by the window, watching the city wake up. My duffel bag sat by the door, half-packed. Just in case.
I didn’t want to leave without her.
I didn’t want to leave her—period.
But I had to.
So I we
