Page 34 of Angel
She laughs then, short and broken. “It must be nice. To be able to step back. To say this doesn’t define you.”
“That’s not...”
“You don’t wake up every morning in a body that feels like it’s failing,” she says, tears streaking down her cheeks now. “You don’t watch the calendar like it’s a countdown clock. You don’t feel like the world’s waiting to see if you’re enough.”
I take a step toward her. She steps back. That’s when I know I’ve fucked up worse than I thought.
“I didn’t mean to minimize it,” I say hoarsely. “I swear to God, Stevie. I was scared. I didn’t know how to pull you back without—”
“Without what?” she snaps. “Making it smaller? Making me smaller?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because no matter how I dress it up, the truth underneath is ugly: I was afraid.
Afraid she was disappearing again.
Afraid I’d lose her to the same obsession that almost broke us before.
Afraid that hope, real hope, was gonna tear her apart all over again.
And instead of saying that, I chose the worst possible words. She turns and locks herself in the bathroom. The click of the lock sounds like a gunshot. I stand there staring at the door, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at me to break it down, pull her into my arms, and make it right.
But this isn’t a door you kick in. This is a line you crossed. I sink down onto the couch, elbows on my knees, hands dangling useless between them. My chest feels tight, like there’s a band wrapped around it and someone’s pulling hard.
This is why I’m bad at this shit. Give me a gun. A plan. A threat I can see coming. Don’t give me the woman I love crying behind a locked door because of something I said when I was tired and scared and human.
I hear movement inside the bathroom. A soft sound that might be her crying or might be her trying not to. I press my forehead into my hands.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time gets slippery when regret sinks in this deep. I knock once, gently.
“Stevie,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
No answer. I lean my head against the doorframe. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know how much this means to you. I know what you’ve lost. And I hate myself right now for makin’ it sound like it doesn't matter.”
Still nothing. “I wasn’t tryin’ to tell you to stop wantin’ it,” I continue. “I was tryin’ to tell you that if it never happens, if it doesn’t, you still matter. We still matter.”
The words feel thin now.Late.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Scared that every time you hope, it’s gonna tear you open again. And I don’t know how to stop that without sayin’ the wrong damn thing.”
My throat tightens. “But I would never, never, tell you that this isn’t everything when it feels like it is. Not to you. Not ever.”
The lock doesn’t click. The door doesn’t open. And that’s when it really hits me:'Sorry'isn’t always enough.
I don’t leave the house.
I don’t go to the bar.
Don’t call the brothers.
Don’t do the things I usually do when shit gets heavy.
I sit and wait.
And I hate myself for the relief I feel when she finally opens the door.
She doesn’t look at me. Walks straight past, phone in hand, jacket already on.
