Page 18 of Angel
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t stop you?”
I shake my head. “Not when it matters.”
Her jaw tightens. She looks away, staring at the sink like it’s safer than looking at me.
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“You’re not gettin’ one.”
“Or pity.”
“Not that either.”
She finally looks at me then. Really looks.
“What are you offering?” she asks, voice rough.
I step closer, slow, and careful, like I’m approaching something fragile.
“Me,” I say. “Just me.”
She laughs once, sharp and broken.
“That’s not enough, Angel.”
“That’s all I’ve got,” I reply quietly. “And I’m done pretendin’ it isn’t.”
We sit at the kitchen table. No touching. No grand gestures. Just two mugs of coffee going cold between us. Her sister gives us space without disappearing completely. I can hear her moving around in the living room.Present. Not hovering.
“I’m scared,” Stevie says suddenly, staring into her cup.
I nod. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
There’s no bite in it. Just honesty.
“It feels like if I stop trying, I’m admitting defeat,” she continues. “Like I’m saying, my body wins.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I don’t see this as you versus your body.”
She snorts softly. “It feels like that.”
“I get that.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I don’t mean that cruelly. I just…this isn’t about logic. It’s about not wanting my body to be the thing that breaks us.”
That one hits deep. I sit back slowly.
“Your body ain’t breakin’ us.”
“Then what is?” she asks.
“Silence,” I say. “Fear. Us tryin’ to protect each other instead of lettin’ the other one see how bad it hurts.” Her shoulders slump.
