Chapter 16: Music listens
1318 Words
When the song ended, she wiped her eyes and reached for the door handle.
I stopped her—not roughly, not forcefully—just enough to keep the moment from slipping away.
Her reaction was immediate. She turned toward me, anger flashing through her expression, the same reflex she carried everywhere. But before she could speak, I stepped in gently, my voice low, steady.
“I know you’re not in a good place right now,” I said. “I heard the songs you chose. I asked you to play them so I could understand how you’re feeling—not to trap you in it.”
She stilled.
“I need us to talk,” I continued. “You matter to me more than I’ve let myself show. And I’m confused, Thumper. Something changed after the last time we were together, and I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Her anger softened into something rawer—hurt, frustration, exhaustion layered together. She hesitated, then slowly slid back into her seat and handed me my phone.
I locked the door, not to cage her, but to give us privacy.
“You can keep my phone,” I said quietly. “Anytime you need it. I’ll delete whatever you want, download whatever you need. I don’t care. I just don’t want you shutting me out and leaving me guessing.”
Her eyes flickered with fear. When she spoke, her voice was small, almost embarrassed.
“What if I break this?”
I took her hands before she could pull them away. They were twisting together, restless, like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.
“You won’t,” I said gently.
She swallowed hard.
“What if I push you away?”
I shifted closer, careful, deliberate, tucking a strand of hair back so her tears wouldn’t fall unchecked. If there was one thing I refused to do, it was let her feel punished for being honest.
“Then I’ll step closer,” I said.
Her body began to tremble, her next words breaking me open.
“What if one day… I wake up and don’t like you anymore?”
Her fear wasn’t about me.
It was about loss. About becoming disposable. About love expiring without warning.
“Then I’ll fall in love with you again,” I answered without hesitation.
She looked up at me, stunned—like she hadn’t expected that kind of certainty. Like it scared her.
I let the silence breathe before asking my own question.
“What if I don’t know how to be soft with you all the time?” I asked. “What if I say things badly… like I just did?”
She shook her head, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t need soft. I just need you.”
The words settled between us, fragile and real.
“And what if I destroy everything?” she added.
I held her gaze, unwavering.
“Then we rebuild,” I said.
“Together.”
Without warning, I had thought she might lean into me—that she might allow herself to believe in something new, something steady.
Instead, fear caught her first.
“Then… can you tell me who those women were?” she asked quietly. “The ones who came to the house that night. I thought—”
Her voice faltered, tangled in emotion she didn’t have the strength to finish.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
The young women from my pack. The ones I had asked to help—clumsy, well-meaning, and disastrously misread. I had wanted them to offer advice, ideas, solutions. I had wanted them to help me understand how to make her feel safe, welcomed, supported.
But Thumper must have overheard something. Or seen them and filled in the silence with her own fears.
That night—that night—had been the fracture point.
No wonder she had pulled away.
No wonder she had stopped coming home.
No wonder she had begun shrinking herself, believing she didn’t belong.
And then her ex-husband’s new girlfriend surfaced in my mind—the woman who had publicly replaced her, who had paraded herself as proof that Thumper wasn’t enough.
I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, shame settling heavy in my chest.
She had been piecing together a story that hurt her—one I never meant to tell.
Yes, that woman was admired by the town. Yes, she fit their shallow standards of beauty and success. But none of that mattered to me. It never had.
What mattered was the woman sitting beside me now.
A woman who worked until her body collapsed.
A woman who carried responsibility like a burden she had no right to bear alone.
A woman who still showed up, even after loss stacked on loss.
She hadn’t given up—not because she didn’t want to, but because something inside her refused to stop trying.
And it broke my heart to realize how easily the world had taught her otherwise.
This system thrives on illusion—on appearances, on false measures of worth. It convinces people like Thumper that struggling is a personal failure instead of a structural cruelty.
I would not let her believe she was the problem.
Not when she was surviving something that would have broken many others.
Not when all she needed was the truth—and the reassurance that she had never been invisible to me.
Letting out a slow breath, I knew she deserved the truth—at least the part of it she was ready to hear.
“Thumper,” I said quietly, choosing my words with care, “those women came to our house to help me. Not to replace you. Not to compete with you.”
Her eyes stayed guarded, so I continued.
“Some of them are married. Some of them are your age. They came because I asked them how to support someone who’s been hurt the way you’ve been hurt. I didn’t handle it right, and I see that now.”
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration directed entirely at myself.
“And yes,” I added honestly, “by social standards, they’re considered attractive. But that doesn’t mean anything to me. Not one of them has ever had my attention the way you do.”
Still, she didn’t look convinced.
My chest tightened.
“They aren’t my exes,” I said more firmly. “None of them are women I’m interested in. I’m not seeing anyone. I haven’t been on a date with anyone. And I won’t be.”
I met her eyes, steady and open.
“It’s you. It’s always been you.”
I held my phone out to her, not as proof, not as leverage—just transparency.
“Look if you want. See who’s there. I’m not hiding anything.”
She didn’t scroll. She didn’t search.
She just held the phone like it weighed more than it should.
Before either of us could speak again, her stomach betrayed her—loud, sharp, undeniable.
Hunger.
Real hunger.
The kind that comes from giving everything and forgetting to keep anything for yourself.
I unlocked the car immediately, the sound abrupt in the quiet. She didn’t wait for me to open her door. She stepped out on her own, shoulders folding inward as if the fight had finally left her.
And then she cried.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to break me.
I was out of the car in seconds, closing the distance without thinking, careful not to grab, not to overwhelm—just close enough so she wouldn’t feel alone in it.
“I’ve got you,” I said softly, not as a promise of ownership, but as reassurance.
“You don’t have to carry this by yourself anymore.”
And this time, I meant it without conditions.
- Writer
