Page 74 of Every Shattered Note
“I’m still impressed about the dinner,” I manage, setting the glass on the coffee table nearby before settling back against the railing.“You’re an amazing cook.Crepes with cajeta for dessert?Unexpectedly delicious.”
He leans beside me on the railing.“I’m that good only when trying to impress someone.”
I glance at him, eyes narrowed.“And?Was it worth it?All the work?”
“For you, yes.”He smirks.“I’m guessing it was mission accomplished, huh?”
“That’s dangerous,” I murmur.“Now I’ll expect it every night.”
His gaze drags over my face, slow and searing.“You say that like I’d mind.”
The words drop between us like something half-confessed.
It’s too much and not enough.I laugh softly to cover the sudden flood of feelings that threaten to choke me.But it’s too late.The thought is already there, fully formed.Unforgiving.
What would it be like?
Waking up to this.To him.Every morning.
Coffee poured into mismatched mugs.Guitar strings humming in the next room.His voice low—still rough with sleep, like gravel dipped in honey—before noon.Dinners made from scratch while music plays low in the background and his hand brushes the small of my back.Arguments about nothing.Laughter over everything.
The intimacy of knowing someone in the smallest gestures.Shared mornings.Unrushed nights.The rhythm of routine.The gentle ache of love made ordinary, the magic in choosing each other over and over.
I swallow hard.Because I know better.That future isn’t mine to imagine.Not yet.Maybe not ever.
The wind picks up, brushing my dress against my thighs, tugging at the ends of my hair.He doesn’t move.Just watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“You ever notice,” he says quietly, “how silence feels different with some people?”
I glance sideways.“Different how?”
“Like it’s full and peaceful instead of empty and awkward.”
He’s right.This quiet isn’t a void—it’s alive, threaded with everything we’re not saying but somehow already know.
We stay like that for a while.Saying nothing.Letting the night deepen.The music hums low from the speaker now, nothing but saxophone and longing, bleeding into the sound of the surf.
His shoulder brushes mine—barely there, but it might as well be a fire.I feel it everywhere.And me?I’m trying not to imagine forever.Also hoping that this doesn’t shatter too soon, like everything good that happens to me.
It’s a balance of staying positive while remembering that this isn’t how things work out for me.
When he finally speaks, he says, “You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Everything.”One word that helps me avoid the reality of it all.
He nods, his jaw tense.“Same.”
I risk a glance at him, and he’s watching me.After a couple of beats, he speaks again.“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Did it mean something to you?Earlier.”He breathes.“Me touching you.Making you feel just a little bit of how much I want you?”
The air leaves my lungs, because the word want feels like much more.
