His Hand in Mine, But I Still Had Questions

We didn't say much as we walked out of the rain. His hand was still holding mine, warm and familiar, like it had never let go in the first place. People rushed past us with umbrellas and office bags, but for a minute it felt like we were the only two people standing still on that wet pavement. "Are you cold?" he asked. I shook my head, even though my blouse was sticking to my skin. I wasn't cold. I was confused. Three months. It had been three months since he resigned, since the last awkward goodbye in the pantry, since I told myself I was finally over Chike. And now he was here. Outside my new office building. Holding my hand like we had not ended. "Chike, what are you doing here?" He smiled, that small smile that always made his eyes disappear. "I heard you moved to this branch. I was in the area for a client meeting. Then I saw you running in the rain without an umbrella. Old habits." Old habits. That was us. He always had an umbrella. I never did. We started walking. He didn't ask if he could walk with me, he just did. His car was parked two blocks away, he said, but he walked me all the way to the bus stop anyway. The silence between us wasn't empty. It was full of all the things we never said when he left. "How is work?" I asked, because it was the safest question. "Good. Busy. New company is... good. Yours?" "It's okay. Different. Less... dramatic." He laughed. "Less dramatic because I'm not there?" I didn't answer. Because yes. The workplace romance, the secret glances during meetings, the way everyone in the office pretended not to know — it was dramatic. It was sweet at first, then it became exhausting. "You never replied to my last message," he said quietly. We had stopped under a shop awning. The rain was getting heavier again, drumming on the zinc. His hand was still in mine. I looked down at it. His thumb was rubbing small circles on my skin. A habit I used to love. A habit that used to make me feel chosen. Now it made me ask questions. "Which message?" I asked, even though I knew which one. "The one where I said I'm sorry. And that I still think about you." My heart did a stupid little jump. I hated that it still did that. "Chike, you left. You resigned and you left without really talking to me. You left me to answer questions from HR, from our manager. Do you know how that felt?" His jaw tightened. "I know. I panicked. They were about to find out about us and I didn't want you to lose your job. It was easier if I just... left." "Easier for you," I whispered. He was quiet for a long time. The rain fell. A bike splashed past us. "Are you seeing someone?" he asked suddenly. I pulled my hand back. Finally. "That's not your business anymore." "It is if I still—" "If you still what, Chike?" He looked at me then, really looked at me, with rain on his eyelashes. "If I still love you." And there it was. The question I had carried for three months, answered in the middle of a wet afternoon, under a noisy awning. His hand found mine again. I let him. For a second. But even with his hand in mine, warm and familiar, I still had questions. A lot of them. Like, if he loved me, why did he leave like that? And if he came back, could I trust him not to leave again? "Chike, I have to go," I said. My bus was coming. "Can I see you tomorrow? For coffee? Just to talk?" I should have said no. I know I should have said no. I said, "Maybe. Text me." I got on the bus with his hand no longer in mine, but the warmth still there. And all my questions, still unanswered.