“I should make coffee.”
Her expression closed.
“Right.”
I walked to the counter even though neither of us needed coffee.
My hands shook when I reached for the machine.
Behind me, Karen said, “I’m sorry.”
I turned.
“For what?”
“That was unfair.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I almost did.”
The honesty between us felt dangerous.
I leaned against the counter.
“You’re hurting.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No.”
I met her eyes.
“But it might mean tomorrow you won’t know why you did it.”
The silence stretched.
Then she nodded.
“You’re right.”
I hated how disappointed I was.
For the next month, we barely spoke.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I wanted to too much.
Daniel noticed something was different.
One Saturday, while we were watching a game at my apartment, he said, “Mom asks about you.”
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