A few days ago.
Hope and fear tangled so tight I couldn’t separate them.
So he wasn’t reminiscing. He was still looking.
I felt something stir under my ribs—hope and fear tangled so tight I couldn’t separate them.
Emily waited, absolutely still, like if she moved I’d retreat.
Finally, I exhaled. “Okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes,” I said, voice shaking. “Message him.”
It’s humiliating how quickly your brain can turn back into a teenager.
Emily nodded like a professional.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “Public place. Daytime. Boundaries. I’m not getting you abducted, Miss Anne.”
Despite myself, I laughed. It came out shaky and wet.
“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”
That night, I stood in front of my closet like it was an exam I hadn’t studied for.
It’s humiliating how quickly your brain can turn back into a teenager.
“You are 62. Act like it.”
I held up sweaters. Rejected them. Put them back. Pulled them out again.
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