The morning after I closed the distance the air itself felt different.
I woke before the thin winter light had fully claimed the room and lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet. The decision from the night before sat in my chest like a second heartbeat—steady, insistent, impossible to ignore. I had crossed the space I had spent weeks defending. I had put my hand on his coat and admitted I was tired of starving. Nothing about the hate had disappeared. Nothing about the fear had lessened. But the running had stopped, and in its place was something heavier and more dangerous: the obligation to stand still and feel everything at once.
I dressed with more care than usual. Not for him. For myself. The hoodie still went on last, the zipper pulled high, but the armor felt less like pr
