Page 40 of Every Shattered Note
He chuckles, soft and real.“Good choice.I’d take you, you know.If you weren’t already booked through the next millennium.”
I laugh, and it comes out lighter than I feel.“It’s ironic that this millennium just started.”
“Exactly.And your schedule’s already full.”
The truth of it sinks beneath my ribs.I laugh again, but it stutters in my chest.Because he’s right.My calendar is crammed with everyone else’s dreams.Their milestones.Their magic.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped adding mine.
I stopped believing that it could happen to me.
We reach the stoop of my apartment building—the kind with too many buzzers, faded numbers, and one cracked step that’s been there since before I moved in.I pause, digging through my bag for my keys.They jingle like wind chimes at the bottom, loud against the hush of the night.
Rafe lingers a step behind, saying nothing.Just waiting—giving me space, as if he knows how rare that is.
I finally find the keys and hold them in my palm, my fingers wrapped around cold metal.And I don’t want to go inside.Not yet.
“Thanks for walking me,” I say, tracing invisible lines on the sidewalk with the tip of my shoe.“And the burger.”
“Thanks for letting me,” he says.“And keeping me company.I needed that.”
There’s a pause.The air between us shifts, like neither of us knows what to do with it.He takes a small breath, I do too, and for a moment it feels like something might happen if either of us moves even an inch.But neither of us does.
Our eyes meet.
It’s nothing and everything.
There’s no dramatic swell of music, no perfect line to wrap this up in a bow.Just the stillness of a moment where everything could tilt forward.Could fall.
But neither of us moves.
He doesn’t lean in.I don’t reach out.The air between us pulses with everything I’ve tried not to want.All the things I’ve told myself I don’t have time for.That I don’t deserve.
“Good night, Rafe,” I whisper, and it feels like saying goodbye to something that just started breathing.
He starts to reply—“No.It’s ...”—then stops himself.Shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth like he almost said too much.“Good night, Aly.Thanks again.For tonight.”
I nod, fingers clumsy as I turn the key and push the door open.The warm air inside wraps around me, thick with the scent of old pipes and too many heaters kicking on at once.But it doesn’t touch the chill that creeps in the second I step away from him.
He stays right where he is.Doesn’t fill the silence.Doesn’t move.Just watches me with this look I can’t quite interpret—like he wants to say something else but won’t.Like if he does, it’ll undo whatever fragile thread we’ve barely begun weaving.
I hover at the threshold.The door halfway open behind me, my fingers still curled around the keys.I feel them slipping, feel the part of me that wants to stall.To stay outside.To keep talking.To find a reason for him to stay.
“Again ...thanks for walking me,” I repeat.The words feel too small.Like I owe him more and don’t know how to give it.
He doesn’t answer right away.Just tilts his head a fraction, the way people do when they’re memorizing something.When they know they won’t get to see it again for a while.
“Don’t forget the demo,” I add.“Tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”His voice is quiet but sure.“I’ll be here early.”
And then, just like that, he turns and walks into the night.
No looking back.No final word.Just a figure slipping into the dark, like this—whatever this is—was enough for now.
I step inside and let the door shut behind me.The click echoes too loudly in the stillness.I don’t move.Just stand there, palm pressed to the glass, watching the sidewalk he disappeared down, like it might give me something back.
It wasn’t a date.
