I don't text Zeke back for three days.
Not because I'm avoiding him- though part of me is, but because I need to figure out what *I* want. Not what he wants. Not what my mom thinks I should do. Not what makes for a good story or a clean resolution.
What *I* need.
On Monday, I see him in the hallway. Our eyes meet for a second, and I see the question there, the hope and fear mixed together. I give him a small nod- acknowledgment, not forgiveness, and keep walking.
He doesn't follow. Doesn't text. Doesn't push.
That, somehow, means more than any apology.
On Tuesday, I have my first therapy session since moving back. Dr. Patel is different from my therapist in North Carolina, younger, more direct, but when I tell her everything, she doesn't try to tell me what to feel.
"What do you wan
