I look away, unable to meet her gaze any longer.
The sun continues its descent, the shadows growing longer and deeper around us.
The world feels smaller, like it’s closing in.
I take a step back, feeling the roughness of the door frame against my fingertips.
It’s a comfort, in a way.
Something solid to hold onto.
“It’s not that simple,” I finally say, my voice steady now.
She nods, as if she understands.
But I doubt she truly does.
Understanding requires more than just being here.
It requires acknowledgment of what was lost.
Of what was taken.
But she’s never been good at that.
Her hands fidget, fingers twisting together in her lap as if they too are searching for something to hold.
Perhaps she recognizes the futility in it all, the weight of years that can’t be undone.
There’s a part of me that wants to reach out, to bridge the gap between us.
But I hold back, unsure if I can.
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