Noah
We were curled together on Sophia's couch one quiet evening, the kind of easy, unhurried night that had slowly become more common between us these past several weeks, when she asked me something I hadn't fully prepared myself to answer.
"Can I ask you something personal?" she said, her head resting against my shoulder. "About your mom."
I felt myself tense slightly, an old, familiar discomfort surfacing despite how much progress I'd made lately in opening up more freely with her. "Sure," I said carefully.
"You don't talk about her much. I've noticed that. Even during everything else you've shared these past few weeks, she's kind of remained this quiet, unexplored piece of your story."
She was right, and the observation, gentle as it was, landed with more weight than I expected. "
