Eight
656 Words
Flavian
The office was silent in the way only expensive spaces could be. The kind of quiet designed to keep thoughts organized, contained.
Normally, it worked.
Up here, problems turned into numbers. Risks turned into contracts. Decisions were clean and Controlled.
Tonight, none of that helped.
I loosened my tie and stared out at the city, lights scattered below like they meant something. Like there was a pattern I was supposed to understand.
All I could hear was her voice.
You could have just asked me.
It hadn’t been loud. That was the problem. No anger or dramatics. Just hurt.
My phone rang. My driver. I’d called him to take me home, hoping the familiar routine would quiet my head. I left the building, rode the elevator down, and slid into the back seat. He drove the way he always did,silent.
Tonight, I would have appreciated otherwise.
I was home before I registered the drive. I didn’t take off my jacket. Didn’t turn on all the lights. I stood by the window, the glass reflecting a version of me that looked composed enough to pass inspection.
My chest disagreed.
You could have just asked me.
The words had followed me out of the school, into the car, into my home. They sat heavier than any accusation could have.
I told myself I’d done the right thing.
A child alone after hours. A situation that didn’t feel right. I’d acted out of concern. That was the reasonable explanation. The one that fit who I was.
But reason kept colliding with another image.
A police officer at her door.
Her son listening.
that is the exact opposite of what i wanted.
I scrubbed a hand down my face. The report had been straightforward. Procedural. I hadn’t expected it to move that fast. I hadn’t expected it to feel like I’d set off a bomb in someone’s life.
'Intent didn’t erase impact'.
I poured a drink and didn’t touch it. My reflection stared back at me, thirty-two, controlled, successful. The kind of man trusted to make difficult decisions.
The kind of man who once sat very still while strangers asked questions about his home. About his parents. About bruises no one had explanations for.
I went rigid.
I didn’t revisit that memory. I built a life that made it irrelevant. Order. Structure. Control. No room for uncertainty.
They had said they were helping back then. Said it was routine.
Nothing about it had felt routine.
Had that been what I saw in her son’s eyes?
Not fear or neglect but patience. Quiet endurance.
My jaw tightened.
She was sharp and Defensive. Reckless with her mouth, The kind of person who challenged authority without hesitation.
And yet—
She worked too much. Slept too little. Loved her child with a ferocity that bordered on desperation.
I shouldn’t have noticed that.
I definitely shouldn’t have noticed the way her hands shook when she was angry, or how she stood like she expected impact even when no one was near her.
That awareness unsettled me.
I picked up my phone. Stared at her name. My thumb hovered.
What would I even say?
Sorry I detonated your life because I didn’t slow down long enough to ask a question?
She wouldn’t want to hear from me. She’d tell me to stay out of it.
Maybe she’d be right.
I set the phone down.
Walking away would be easier.
Which meant I wouldn’t.
I’d started something so If it went too far, I would know. If lines were crossed, I would step in. Quietly and Properly. The way things should have been handled from the beginning.
I told myself that was responsibility.
Not attachment.
Still, as I turned away from the window and into the dark apartment, one thought followed me.
I had to stay close to her.
And for reasons I didn’t understand yet, that didn’t feel like guilt.
It felt like relief
- Writer
