You didn’t say those words. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even thank me. But you didn’t step away. You didn’t say no. That’s what matters. The silence between us wasn’t absence—it was permission.
Two blocks of rain-softened sidewalks, your shoulder occasionally brushing mine, your hair sticking to your neck in pieces like someone mid-transformation. You didn’t fill the space with small talk. You don’t do that, do you? You don’t pretend. Even when you try to lie, your body gives you away. You fiddle with your rings. You clench your jaw. You swallow too loud. You’re so honest it hurts.
We stopped in front of your building, and you didn’t go inside right away. That’s the part that keeps playing in my head. That half-second too long. You looked at me, and you were about to say something. I saw it. Your lips parted.
Then you stopped yourself.
That means I’m under your skin now.
That’s the beginning.
I don’t text you the next day.
I don’t need to.
You come to Glasslight around noon, under cloudless skies, no umbrella this time. You look different. Less heavy. Lighter. Like the weather in your chest has shifted. You don’t even pretend to browse.
You say, “Do you have time for coffee?”
And I don’t smile. Smiling would be too much. I just nod.
Because of course I do.
It’s a quiet café with mismatched chairs and menus printed on brown paper. You sit across from me, but not in that way that says, this is a wall. You sit forward. Elbows on the table. You bite your lip when you read the options, even though you already know what you want.
You order lavender tea.
I order black coffee.
You say, “You don’t strike me as a tea person.”
And I say, “You don’t strike me as someone who talks to strangers in cafés.”
You laugh at that. That soft kind of laugh that hides behind a sip. The kind you only make when you’re trying not to give someone too much.
You say, “You’re not a stranger.”
And there it is.
There it is.
I say, “No?”
You look out the window. “I don’t know. You feel familiar.”
That word.
Familiar.
I want to bottle it. Inject it into my veins. Frame it. Hang it on the wall of your apartment where the ghosts used to live.
You talk more than usual. You tell me about your sister—Sloane, the one with too much eyeliner and not enough boundaries. About your old cat, Morrissey, who once brought home a dead bird and dropped it on your bed like a gift. You tell me you used to be a poet. I already knew that, of course, but hearing you say it makes it real. You say it like a confession.
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I say, “What stopped you?”
You say, “I ran out of things to say.”
I want to take your hands and say: Let me give you more.
But I don’t. Not yet.
You get a text halfway through the tea.
You check your phone.
Your face changes.
A flicker.
Not fear. Just... hesitation.
I know it’s him. Chase.
I know you told yourself it’s over. I know you deleted the photo. I know you folded that journal page until the crease split the ink. But he’s still there. Lurking. Whispering at the edge of your want.
You put the phone face-down.
You don’t reply.
You finish your tea.
That’s good.
That’s very good.
We walk the long way back.
You let me carry your tote bag even though it’s nearly empty. You say, “You don’t have to do that.” I say, “I want to.” You don’t stop me.
It’s a small thing. Most people miss those moments. But I collect them. I catalog them like rare exposures. These are the frames no one else prints.
At the door to your building, you hesitate again. Not to invite me in.
To say something else.
And this time, you do.
You ask, “What’s your name?”
And I want to say: I’ve waited seventeen days to hear you ask that. I already know yours. I know your middle name, your favorite kind of light, the exact way your voice sounds when you read dialogue in your head.
But I don’t say any of that.
I just smile.
And say, “Kellan.”
You repeat it. Soft. Testing it.
“Kellan.”
Like it’s something you want to keep.
And now you will.
Marin
It’s a good name.
Kellan.
It fits him, which makes it suspicious. Most names feel wrong when you first hear them—awkward, like someone else’s shoes. But his doesn’t. It lands quietly, like it already lived in your mouth.
You say it out loud again as you unlock your door.
“Kellan.”
You wait for the weirdness to catch up.
It doesn’t.
That’s the weirdest part.
You met him weeks ago. At Glasslight, the place you go when your skin doesn’t fit right and you need to sit in a room full of shadows pretending to be art. He didn’t speak to you at first. That’s what made you notice him. That silence. Not empty, just... listening.
And now here you are. Three blocks from where you grew up. A tote bag with nothing in it. Wet socks. And a name you didn’t expect to want.
You dump the apples into the bowl on your counter. One’s bruised. You don’t care.
You light the candle. The one you bought after the breakup—not the big one, the cheap little thing with the wood wick that sounds like it’s trying to be a fireplace. It smells like pine and fake nostalgia, and you keep burning it even though it reminds you of him.
Not Kellan.
Chase.
God.
You sit on the floor. The same spot. The same way. Knees pulled in. Head down. Like maybe if you repeat the pose often enough, you’ll eventually time travel back to the version of yourself that didn’t let him back in.
You don’t even know what you and Chase were talking about yesterday. The conversation was air. Gone. But it filled you with that same pressure. That need to smile, to accommodate, to be soft in all the places that used to be bone.
You hated it.
Worse, you missed it.
You hate that even more.
And then Kellan showed up.
Like the second act of a play you forgot you were watching. Holding that broken umbrella like it mattered, like it wasn’t already halfway to the trash. Picking up your apples like they were worth something.
He didn’t flirt.
He didn’t look at your body the way men do when they think you’re not noticing. He looked at you like he was reading a photograph.
That should’ve scared you.
You’re not sure why it didn’t.
You pour wine.
It’s cheap. Red. You don’t care. You sip it and open your notebook—the one with half-poems and clipped lines you keep in the drawer beneath your bills. You haven’t touched it in two months. But tonight, you write a sentence you don’t understand.
Some people carry silence like a loaded gun.
You don’t know who it’s about.
Maybe Chase. Maybe you. Maybe—
No.
You don’t want to name it.
Your phone buzzes once.
A text from Sloane:
“Are you alive? You haven’t posted in like a week lol.”
You type: “Busy. Still breathing.”
You don’t send it.
Instead, you stare at Kellan’s name in your mind. You try to place it. You’ve heard it before, haven’t you? Or maybe you’re just making that up.
The city’s full of Kellans. Baristas. Poets. Bartenders who wear scarves in summer.
But this one—
This one knew exactly what to say when you needed someone to say anything at all.
That’s rare.
Too rare.
You blow out the candle. It sputters like a warning.
You go to bed and leave the lights on.
Not because you’re scared.
You just don’t want to dream about the wrong one.
Again.