He lowers his gaze for a second. He runs a hand over the back of his neck.
"Vanessa..."
That tone.
It's not the tone of a man in love.
It's the tone of someone preparing to disappoint.
"Don't look at me like that," I whisper.
"So how?"
"As if I had only been a pause."
The silence thickens between us.
The whole house seems to hold its breath.
"You were never a pause," he says finally.
"Then what was I?"
He does not respond immediately. And in that wordless space I find the answer I didn't want.
I wasn't love, I was stability.
Convenience, the right company. But not the woman who keeps him awake at night.
I look at him. I really look at him. In pajamas, unarmed.
And I understand something with brutal clarity.
I didn't come here to confirm if he called her. I came to confirm
