11
1199 Words
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Small Things
The thing nobody tells you about having your life rearranged underneath you is that eventually, inconveniently, you still get hungry.
You still need to shower.
You still answer texts.
You still discover there’s no clean laundry.
Existential crises apparently do not qualify as exemptions from chores.
Three days pass.
Not dramatic days.
No hidden videos.
No memory breakthroughs.
No discovering I’m secretly royalty.
Just—
days.
And for the first time since waking up here, I stop feeling like a visitor.
Not because I remember.
Because routine starts happening to me.
I wake up.
Coffee.
Lucas tells me things.
Kit leaves things unsaid.
Repeat.
I learn things.
Lucas hates crust.
Kit likes his coffee black for reasons that feel emotionally concerning.
There are exactly four mugs everybody fights over.
Apparently I alphabetize spices.
Which is embarrassing.
I also apparently buy expensive hand soap.
I’m becoming increasingly suspicious of past me.
By day three, I’m standing in the kitchen making lunch when I realize something horrible.
I don’t know where Kit is.
And I immediately know that’s weird.
I freeze.
Knife in hand.
Why did I notice?
People exist in other rooms all the time.
That means nothing.
I continue making sandwiches.
Three minutes later—
I realize the house is too quiet.
I put the knife down.
Immediately annoyed.
No.
No.
I am not doing this.
I am not becoming emotionally attached because somebody once told me a story about tomatoes.
I open the back door.
Backyard.
Empty.
Garage.
Empty.
Office.
Empty.
I stop.
Why am I looking?
I stand there for another second.
Then—
“Oh.”
The oak tree.
I walk outside.
And there he is.
Kit is sitting under the tree.
Not doing anything.
No phone.
No laptop.
Just sitting.
Elbows on knees.
Looking somewhere far away.
I stop.
Because suddenly—
he looks tired.
Not exhausted.
Not dramatic.
Just…
human.
Like someone who forgot nobody was watching.
I stand there too long.
Eventually he notices.
His head turns.
His expression changes immediately.
Back into careful.
That bothers me.
He straightens.
“You okay?”
I cross my arms.
Why is that always his first question?
I walk closer.
“You disappeared.”
His eyebrows lift.
I immediately regret my wording.
He waits.
Then—
“…Sorry?”
That is not the response I expected.
I frown.
“Why are you apologizing?”
He looks confused.
Then—
“You looked worried.”
Pause.
“So.”
I stare.
What.
I sit beside him.
Not close.
Not far.
There’s shade under the tree.
Wind.
Birds.
Garden.
Annoyingly peaceful.
We sit quietly.
Then I ask—
“What were you doing?”
He looks at the tree.
Then says—
“Taking a minute.”
I look at him.
His expression stays neutral.
Too neutral.
I narrow my eyes.
“You don’t take minutes.”
His head turns.
I blink.
What.
His eyebrows lift.
I stare.
That came out way too naturally.
He studies me.
Then quietly—
“…No.”
My stomach drops.
I look away.
I hate that.
I say—
“You’re always doing things.”
His expression changes.
Tiny.
He looks back at the tree.
Then says—
“…You used to say that.”
No.
No no.
I pick at my sleeve.
Then say—
“Why are you being so weird?”
He blinks.
I gesture vaguely.
“This.”
His face stays calm.
I continue—
“You don’t ask for anything.”
Pause.
“You don’t explain unless I ask.”
Pause.
“You leave every room first.”
Pause.
“You keep acting like if you stand too close I’ll disappear.”
Silence.
He looks away.
That’s interesting.
Too interesting.
I sit straighter.
“…Do I?”
His jaw shifts.
Long silence.
Then—
“Sometimes.”
The answer is quiet.
Too quiet.
I look at him.
He keeps staring forward.
Then—
“The first few times…”
His mouth presses together.
“…you’d wake up scared.”
I go still.
His voice stays even.
“You didn’t know me.”
Pause.
“You didn’t know the house.”
Pause.
“You’d get overwhelmed.”
His eyes lower.
“So I started waiting.”
My chest tightens.
He continues—
“I figured if you came to me…”
Pause.
“…you’d trust it more.”
Silence.
I stare.
Then—
“…That’s sad.”
His head turns.
I regret saying it instantly.
But I keep going.
“It sounds lonely.”
His expression changes.
Like he wasn’t expecting that answer.
He looks away.
Then shrugs.
“…Maybe.”
I stare.
Then—
“Did I ever…”
I hesitate.
His eyes come back.
I swallow.
“…Did I ever ask you to stop trying?”
His face stills.
Too still.
I immediately know.
Oh.
His eyes lower.
Then—
“Once.”
My stomach drops.
I look away.
His voice stays calm.
“You didn’t mean it.”
I hate that sentence immediately.
People always say that.
I look at him.
“How do you know?”
His expression softens.
And he says—
“Because later you apologized.”
Pause.
Then—
“And because you only say cruel things when you’re scared.”
Excuse me.
I stare.
He looks at me.
One second.
Two.
Then—
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head.
He nods once.
Looks back at the yard.
Then quietly—
“You told me I looked at you like I was waiting for you to come back.”
My chest tightens.
His voice lowers.
“And you said maybe it made you feel guilty.”
Silence.
I stop breathing.
He continues—
“So after that…”
He shrugs.
“…I tried to stop looking.”
Oh.
That one hurts.
Too much.
I stare at him.
Then—
without thinking—
I say—
“Don’t.”
His head turns.
I blink.
What.
His eyes stay on mine.
I feel my face get warm.
I immediately look away.
“I mean—”
I clear my throat.
“I mean that sounds stupid.”
Recovery. Excellent.
His mouth moves slightly.
Then—
“…Okay.”
Silence.
Wind moves through the leaves.
I look at the white stones.
Then ask—
“Why this tree?”
He looks up.
Then smiles.
Different smile.
Smaller.
Real.
His eyes move toward me.
Then away.
And he says—
“You planted it.”
I blink.
“What?”
His smile stays.
Then—
“First anniversary.”
Pause.
I stare.
His expression softens.
“You said flowers die.”
Pause.
His eyes move to the branches.
“So we planted something that would outlive us.”
I stop breathing.
We sit there quietly.
Then—
before I can stop myself—
I ask—
“…Did you love me first?”
His eyes flick to mine.
No hesitation.
No thinking.
He says—
“No.”
I blink.
What?
His mouth shifts slightly.
Then—
“You noticed first.”
And for some reason—
that answer stays with me longer than if he’d said yes.
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