“She would have tried to stop me,” I hissed. “She would have begged.” My voice rose despite myself. “You think I wanted to hurt her? I would have told you that if I could have done it without killing her.”
He glared at me, hurt flickering through the anger. “It’s not about blame,” he said. “It’s about consequence. You can’t keep everything secret and expect no one to bleed.”
We breathed, the argument collapsing into silence faster than it had flared. I sat on the counter and let the night wash over me in waves of regret and need. I wanted to be held; I wanted to be told it would be okay. Instead, we gave each other the pragmatic map-panel of survival: budget tighter, take on extra hours, stop posting anything that could be used as fuel. Live small, we decided—like the problem could be st
