Page 29 of The Words of Us

It’s supposed to be different now, I tell myself.I have Evie. I have a fresh start.But as I walk, the message burns in my pocket, a constant, nagging reminder that the past has a way of finding you, no matter how far you think you’ve run.

15

EVIE

Iwake up feeling a lightness in my chest, the kind that’s been there more and more lately. Today, I get to see Sasha, and the thought of it pulls me out of bed faster than my morning coffee ever could. I’ve missed her, even though it’s only been a day since we last saw each other. It’s funny how quickly she’s become a part of my daily routine, like her presence is something I’ve been missing all along without knowing it.

We’ve made plans to meet at our usual spot, a little café with mismatched chairs and faded art on the walls. It’s become our place, the kind of cozy, tucked-away corner of the city that feels like it’s just for us. I’m early, of course—I always am when it comes to seeing her—and I spend the time sipping my coffee and replaying moments from the last two weeks in my head. The late nights reading together, the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention, the feeling of her hand slipping into mine as we walk down the street.

When Sasha finally arrives, the familiar jingle of the doorbell signaling her entrance, I look up with a smile, ready for the usual spark that lights up whenever she’s near. But something is different today. She hesitates at the doorway for a moment,her eyes scanning the room like she’s looking for something she’s lost. When our eyes meet, she smiles, but it’s not the easy, carefree smile I’m used to. It’s tight, a little forced, and there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that I can’t quite place.

“Hey,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me. She leans in for a kiss, quick and fleeting, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume mixed with something heavier, maybe worry. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” I say, brushing it off, but the words feel hollow. I reach across the table, my fingers grazing hers, but she pulls back almost instinctively, picking up her menu, even though she knows it by heart. The small distance between us feels suddenly vast.

We order breakfast, and I try to fill the silence with light conversation—telling her about a quirky customer who came into the bookstore yesterday, making jokes about how Kenneth nearly dropped an entire stack of books when a mouse scurried across the floor. Normally, this would make her laugh, that bright, melodic sound that never fails to lift my spirits. But today, Sasha just nods, her eyes unfocused, and I can tell she’s not really listening.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice softer, tinged with a concern I can’t quite hide. “You seem...distracted.”

Sasha looks up, and for a second, there’s a flash of something—fear? Guilt?—before she smooths it over with a practiced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. I want to ask, to dig deeper, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the slight edge in her tone, the way her fingers drum restlessly on the table, or how she keeps glancing at her phone like she’s expecting bad news. I tell myself she’s just tired, that maybe work is stressing her out, but deep down, I know it’s more than that.

As the morning goes on, I keep trying to pull her back, to find the rhythm we’ve had since we started this thing, whatever it is. I suggest a walk, hoping the fresh air will help, and she agrees, but there’s a heaviness in her steps that wasn’t there before. We wander through the city, past the colorful balconies and iron gates of the French Quarter, the kind of scene that usually sparks a story or a joke between us. But today, Sasha is quiet, her responses clipped, as if she’s somewhere else entirely.

I point out a street musician playing an old blues tune, hoping to catch her attention, to get even a flicker of the Sasha I know. She pauses and watches for a moment, but the light in her eyes is distant, like she’s seeing something far away. When I try to slip my arm around her waist, she leans in but doesn’t quite settle, like she’s holding something back, wrapped up in thoughts she won’t share.

We find a bench by the river, and I suggest we sit for a while. The breeze is warm, the sun glinting off the water in a way that makes everything seem softer, easier. But Sasha’s shoulders are tense, her posture is stiff, and I can feel the disconnect between us growing with every second of silence. I try again, asking her about her week, about her plans, but her answers are short, mechanical. The closeness we’ve built feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to pull it back.

“Sasha,” I say finally, turning to face her fully, my voice gentle but firm. “I know something’s going on. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’m here, you know?”

She nods, her gaze fixed on the river, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. “I know, Evie. I do. I just...I can’t right now.”

The words sting more than I want to admit, but I force a smile, nodding as if that’s enough. I reach for her hand again, and this time she lets me hold it, her grip loose but there. I try to draw comfort from the contact, but it feels fragile, like a lifelinethat’s fraying at the edges. I want to tell her that she can trust me, that whatever it is, we’ll get through it together, but I’m scared of pushing too hard, scared of saying the wrong thing and losing her.

We sit in silence, and I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying to read the lines of tension in her face, the tightness in her jaw. It’s like she’s here, but not really, and I don’t know how to reach her. The Sasha I’ve come to know—bright, playful, always with that spark of mischief in her eyes—feels just out of reach, replaced by someone distant, guarded, wrapped up in something I can’t touch.

Eventually, we head back to my place, and I put on a record, hoping the music will break the strange spell that’s settled between us. Sasha sits on the couch, her legs tucked up beneath her, and I curl up beside her, resting my head on her shoulder. She wraps an arm around me, and for a moment, I think maybe things are okay. But the silence stretches, and I feel the familiar Sasha slipping further away.

We spend the rest of the afternoon in a quiet that’s not quite comfortable, not quite tense, but something in between. I read, pretending to be absorbed in the book, but my mind keeps drifting back to the way Sasha’s thumb scrolls absently on her phone, the way she glances at it every few minutes like she’s waiting for something she doesn’t want to see.

I want to ask what’s wrong. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to carry whatever this is alone, but I’m afraid of pushing her away. So I sit there, feeling the weight of the unspoken between us, hoping that whatever’s pulling her away will let go soon, that she’ll come back to me.

As the day fades into evening, I watch her get up, her movements slow and deliberate, like she’s dragging herself through the motions. She kisses me goodbye at the door, a quick,distracted press of our lips that leaves me feeling colder than I like to admit.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“Yeah,” she says, but there’s a hesitation, a flicker of something that tells me she’s not sure. She gives me one last tight smile before she turns away, and I’m left standing in the doorway, watching her walk down the street, feeling more alone than I have in a long time.

I close the door and lean against it, letting the quiet of the apartment settle around me. I don’t know what’s going on with Sasha, but the sudden distance between us leaves me feeling adrift, like I’m losing something I’ve only just begun to find. I want to be there for her, but I don’t know how, and the uncertainty gnaws at me, twisting in my chest like a knot I can’t untangle.

As I move around the apartment tidying up, I find one of the poetry books we’ve been reading together last week. I flip it open to a random page, scanning the lines that once felt so connected to us but now seem hollow, echoing the quiet between us that I don’t know how to fill.

I tell myself it’s just a bad day, that whatever’s going on will pass, and she’ll be back,, the light and carefree Sasha I’ve come to know. But as I lie in bed that night, the emptiness of the space beside me feels impossibly wide, and I can’t help but wonder if whatever’s pulling her away is stronger than anything I can offer.

I close my eyes, holding onto the hope that tomorrow will be different, that the distance will fade, and we’ll find our way back to each other. But sleep doesn’t come easy, and in the quiet dark, all I can do is wait, feeling helpless and a little lost, unsure of how to bridge the gap that’s opened up between us.

The morning air is cool as I make my way to Sasha’s apartment, the city still waking up around me. I don’t know why I decided to come over so early, but I couldn’t bear the weight of yesterday hanging over us. I’ve spent the whole night replaying our time together: the distance in her eyes, the way she seemed so far away even when she was right beside me. I just want to make it better, to feel that closeness we’ve built slip back into place.

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