10
1183 Words
CHAPTER TEN
Before I Knew
After that conversation, I avoid Kit.
Not dramatically.
I don’t storm off.
I don’t declare emotional independence.
I just—
become busy.
Which is my preferred coping mechanism.
Too many feelings?
Organize a drawer.
Existential crisis?
Fold laundry.
Questioning your entire reality?
Inventory.
So naturally, I spend the next hour opening cabinets.
This house has an unreasonable amount of storage.
Every cabinet tells me something irritating.
Reusable containers.
Tea I apparently bought because “the packaging looked trustworthy.”
Three identical black hoodies.
A drawer entirely dedicated to batteries.
Who am I.
At some point I find a basket labeled:
IMPORTANT PAPERS.
Inside:
receipts.
Expired coupons.
One birthday card.
No important papers.
Okay.
That tracks.
I’m standing in the laundry room staring at a shelf full of neatly folded towels when Lucas appears.
He leans against the doorway.
Watching me.
I stare back.
He says—
“You’re doing the thing.”
I blink.
“What thing?”
He shrugs.
“Pretending.”
Excuse me.
Children should need permits before speaking.
I cross my arms.
“Pretending what?”
He thinks.
Then—
“That you don’t care.”
Rude.
I narrow my eyes.
He shrugs.
“You do that.”
Then he disappears.
I stand there offended for at least thirty seconds.
Then continue folding towels.
Which is absurd because I don’t even know whose towels they are.
Eventually I realize something horrifying.
I’m waiting.
Waiting for footsteps.
Waiting for coffee sounds.
Waiting for somebody to interrupt me.
And when nobody does—
the house feels wrong.
No.
No.
I immediately leave the laundry room.
Kitchen.
Empty.
Backyard.
Empty.
Living room—
empty.
I stop.
Okay.
Annoying.
I go upstairs.
Nothing.
Then I find him.
Office.
Door open.
Kit is sitting at a desk.
Working.
Laptop.
Headphones around his neck.
Reading glasses.
Again with the glasses.
His hair is messier than earlier.
One sleeve rolled up.
He’s typing.
Not looking at me.
I stand there.
He doesn’t notice.
That feels weird.
Like he usually does.
I quietly leave.
Five seconds later—
“Helena?”
I stop.
Turn.
He’s looking up.
I narrow my eyes.
“…How did you know?”
He looks confused.
“What?”
“You didn’t look.”
His eyebrows pull together.
Then—
“Oh.”
Pause.
Then casually—
“You stop walking differently.”
I stare.
Excuse me.
He immediately realizes something.
His expression shifts.
He looks away.
“…Sorry.”
There it is.
That thing.
I walk into the office.
He straightens slightly.
Like he wasn’t expecting me to stay.
I look around.
Books.
Folders.
One dying plant.
Excellent.
Human.
I point.
“Your plant sucks.”
He looks at it.
Then—
“…Yeah.”
I point again.
“You should water it.”
He looks at me.
Long enough.
Then quietly—
“You usually do.”
My stomach does something irritating.
I sit in the chair across from him.
Silence.
He waits.
I wait.
Eventually he says—
“What’s up?”
I think for a second.
Then—
“Tell me something bad.”
His eyebrows rise.
“…What?”
I shrug.
“Everybody keeps giving me curated memories.”
Videos.
Photos.
Stories.
Nobody talks about the ugly parts.
His expression changes.
I continue—
“I don’t trust relationships that sound perfect.”
His eyes hold mine.
Then—
“…Okay.”
I wait.
He folds his hands.
Looks down.
Then says—
“You almost left.”
My stomach drops.
Not what I expected.
I stare.
His expression stays calm.
“Three years in.”
I blink.
“…Why?”
He thinks.
Then—
“Life.”
Annoying answer.
I glare.
He sighs.
Then starts.
“You were working too much.”
Pause.
“I was working too much.”
Pause.
“Lucas was little.”
His eyes move toward the desk.
“We stopped talking.”
Something uncomfortable settles in my chest.
He continues.
“You got quiet.”
Pause.
“I got practical.”
His mouth twists slightly.
That doesn’t sound good.
He continues—
“One day…”
His expression goes distant.
“…you asked me if this was it.”
I stare.
He shrugs.
“You said maybe we loved each other but forgot to like each other.”
Oh.
That one lands.
He keeps going.
“You said you missed yourself.”
The room feels quieter.
His voice lowers.
“You said being loved wasn’t the same as being seen.”
Silence.
I stare.
Because—
that sounds familiar.
Too familiar.
He notices.
His eyes soften.
Then—
“You weren’t wrong.”
I blink.
“What?”
He shrugs.
“I thought stability meant success.”
Pause.
“I stopped paying attention.”
I look at him.
That answer surprises me.
No defensiveness.
No blame.
Just—
honest.
He looks away.
Then says—
“You asked for space.”
My chest tightens.
I say quietly—
“…And?”
He breathes out.
Then—
“I gave it.”
Pause.
His eyes lower.
“…Too well.”
I stare.
He gives a tiny smile.
No humor in it.
“You moved into the guest room.”
My chest hurts unexpectedly.
He continues—
“We did therapy.”
Pause.
“We fought.”
Pause.
“You yelled.”
His eyes flick up.
“You cry when you’re angry.”
Excuse me.
He continues—
“I shut down.”
Fair.
His fingers tap once.
Then stop.
Then—
“One night…”
He pauses.
“…you asked me something.”
I wait.
His eyes stay on the desk.
“You asked if I’d still love you if you changed.”
The room goes still.
His jaw shifts.
Then—
“I said yes.”
Pause.
His eyes lift.
“But you didn’t ask that.”
I stare.
His voice lowers.
“You asked if I’d notice.”
Silence.
Something moves inside me.
Not memory.
Recognition.
Again.
I hate recognition.
I look away.
Then quietly—
“…What happened?”
He looks at me.
Long enough.
Then—
“You stayed.”
Pause.
His expression softens.
“And I started paying attention again.”
Silence.
I stare at him.
Then—
“…That’s it?”
His mouth moves.
Tiny.
Then—
“No.”
I blink.
He looks away.
Then quietly—
“About six months later…”
Pause.
“You asked me if I wanted to plant tomatoes.”
I stare.
His expression stays neutral.
“You only do that when you decide not to leave.”
I stare.
Then—
without warning—
I laugh.
Because that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
He looks confused.
I point.
“Your marriage survived because of tomatoes?”
His mouth shifts.
Then—
“…Apparently.”
I keep laughing.
And—
for one second—
he smiles at me like he forgot to be careful.
And I realize something terrifying.
I don’t remember falling in love with him.
But I can suddenly imagine how it happened.
- Writer
