I don’t sign the contract.
Not that morning.
Not after the coffee.
Not after the headlines.
The folder stays on the counter, closed but present, like a silent witness to everything neither of us is saying out loud.
Adrian doesn’t push.
That might be the hardest part.
He leaves shortly after, not because the moment ends, but because it doesn’t. He gives me space the way someone gives space around a wound—not touching it, but never pretending it isn’t there.
“I’ll be nearby,” he says before he goes. “If you need anything.”
I nod, afraid that if I speak, the wrong thing will fall out.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly the apartment feels too quiet.
Too large.
Too aware of me.
I sit on the couch, phone in my hand, watching notifications stack without opening them. Messages
