The Shame between Us

stillness

The house was quiet in that strange way it only ever was when no one else was home.

No cartoons blaring from the living room. No footsteps racing down the hallway. No laughter or yelling or doors slamming shut.

Just the hum of the fridge. And him.

Caleb.

He was in the next room—too close, too real. I could hear the soft creak of the floor when he moved, the slight clink of tools as he fumbled with whatever Dad had left for him to fix.

I should’ve gone upstairs. Shut my door. Pretended I wasn’t here.

But I didn’t. I lingered. In the kitchen. With my hands curled tightly around a cup I hadn’t sipped from in minutes.

Then his voice cut through the silence, hesitant but clear.

"Leila?"

A pause.

"I... I can’t figure this out. Can you come here a second?"

My heart stuttered.

Of course I knew how to fix it. Dad had shown me a dozen times before. But walking in there, into the same space, just the two of us—where everything was too quiet and too loud at once—felt impossible.

"I’m... I’m busy," I said, too quickly.

Another pause. I imagined him standing there, confused. Or worse, understanding.

"Okay," he finally said.

Just that. No pressure. No irritation.

Just the soft weight of disappointment I wasn’t sure I was imagining.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

My chest ached, not from anything he said—just from everything I hadn’t. Everything I wanted to. Everything I wasn’t brave enough to feel out loud.

Because talking to Caleb wasn’t just talking.

It was opening the door to a storm I’d kept locked inside for too long