I moved closer.
He didn’t.
Not away.
Not toward.
Just still.
So I touched his face.
He inhaled sharply.
“I am not asking you to save me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I am not asking you to replace what Caleb broke.”
“I know.”
“I am not asking for forever.”
His eyes filled.
“Emily.”
“I am asking for tonight to be honest.”
That did it.
He kissed me like a man who had been holding back with both hands.
Careful at first.
Then not.
The rain kept falling.
My tea went cold.
My mother saw us through the window and immediately turned around so fast she hit the cabinet.
My father later pretended he had seen nothing.
He had seen everything.
Two years later, Dr. Shah said the word remission.
Not cured.
Doctors are cautious people.
They do not hand out forever.
But remission felt like sunlight after living underground.
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