Page 40 of The Words of Us

The cold hits me as soon as I step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bookstore. I pull my coat tighter around me, my breath fogging in the air as I walk down the street, my feet moving without direction. The city around me feels distant, like I’m watching it from the outside, disconnected from the noise and the bustle. Everything is muffled, like I’m trapped in my own world, my thoughts louder than anything else.

I don’t know what I expected. I poured my heart out to Evie, told her everything, but now I’m left with nothing but uncertainty. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, and the thought of losing her—of losing what we’ve built together—it feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if I’ll fall.

But for the first time in a long time, I’m not hiding. I’m not running. I told her the truth, and that should bring me somesense of relief. And in a way, it does. I’m not carrying the weight of my secret anymore. The truth is out there, and it’s no longer gnawing at me from the inside. But the relief is mixed with a deep, gnawing fear. I know that the truth doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t erase the hurt I’ve caused.

I stop in front of a small park, the trees bare and the grass frosted over. The benches are empty, and the quietness of the scene pulls me in. I sit down, my legs suddenly feeling heavy, like the exhaustion of everything is finally catching up to me.

The memories of the past few weeks with Evie flood my mind. The way she smiled at me that first night at the poetry reading, the sound of her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was something good, something worth holding onto. And now I’ve shattered that trust, that connection.

I close my eyes, leaning back against the bench, trying to push back the tears that threaten to spill over. I didn’t want it to end like this. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I did. I know that I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I hope, deep down, that maybe she can still see the good in us. That maybe she can find it in her heart to forgive me.

But the uncertainty of it all—it’s crushing. I’ve never been good at waiting, at sitting with the unknown. I’ve always been the one to make decisions, to act before thinking. But now, all I can do is wait. And it’s terrifying.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, trying to calm the storm in my mind. The city lights flicker in the distance as cars pass by, life moving forward around me. But I’m stuck here, frozen in this moment, waiting to see if Evie will catch me or let me fall.

I think about going back to my apartment, but the idea of sitting there alone feels suffocating. So, I keep walking, my feet carrying me through the familiar streets of the city, my thoughts drifting back to Evie with every step. I wonder what she’sthinking right now. I wonder if she’s still sitting in the bookstore, replaying everything I said, trying to make sense of it all.

I wish I could take it all back—the lies, the secrets—but I can’t. All I can do is hope that what we had before Gareth showed up is still strong enough to survive this.

I walk for hours, the city blurring around me, my mind racing with all the possibilities of what could come next. Maybe Evie will forgive me, and we’ll find a way to move forward. Or maybe this is the end. Maybe I’ve lost her for good.

The uncertainty sits heavy in my chest, but I know I’ve done all I can. The rest is out of my hands.

As the night wears on, I find myself standing across the street from the bookstore, looking at the warm glow of the lights through the window. Evie’s still inside, sitting at the table where we spent so many evenings together. I watch her for a moment, my heart aching with the weight of everything that’s happened between us.

I don’t go inside. I can’t. Not yet.

So I turn and walk away, the cold air biting at my skin, the uncertainty of what comes next hanging over me like a shadow.

And for the first time in a long time, I let go of the control I’ve been holding onto so tightly.

21

EVIE

The sun slips through the curtains, casting soft rays across my bed, but I don’t move. I’ve been awake for hours, lying here in this half-light, staring at the ceiling, my mind restless and full of thoughts I can’t seem to quiet. It’s been days—days since Sasha walked out of the bookstore, since she left me sitting at that table with all the shattered pieces of what we used to be.

And I haven’t reached out.

I know why. I keep telling myself the same thing, over and over:I can’t go back to her. I can’t be the one to break first.It’s a block I can’t shake, a wall that’s been there for as long as I can remember. My mom was the same way—leaving and never returning. She’d drift in and out of my life like a ghost, and every time I’d reach out, she’d be gone again. Always gone. I learned early on not to be the one who goes looking. You get hurt that way.

But with Sasha, it feels different. Or maybe that’s what I want to believe. I don’t know anymore.

I close my eyes, but it’s worse. All I see is her. Her skin against mine, the feel of her breath on my neck, her fingerstangled in my hair as she whispers my name. I remember the way she made me feel, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way she’d kiss me slowly, taking her time, like she was memorizing every inch of me. I remember the weight of her body pressed against mine, the way we fit together so perfectly in those quiet, intimate moments.

I can still feel her hands on me, the way they’d slide down my sides, rough and soft all at once, between my legs, fingers pushing deep inside of me, leaving trails of heat that would linger long after she was gone. The memory is too real, too vivid. It’s like she’s still here, but she’s not. She’s out there somewhere, and I’m lying here, wanting her. Needing her.

But I can’t reach out. I just...can’t.

It’s a mental block I can’t get past. The fear is too big, too loud. What if I let her back in, and she leaves again? What if I open up, and she walks away, just like my mom always did? That kind of hurt—I've felt it too many times. I don’t think I can survive it again.

Still, every night when I lie here alone in my bed, I find myself wishing she’d come back. Wishing she’d just show up, even though I know it’s not fair to hope for that when I’m not willing to make the first move.

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed, though my body feels heavy, like it’s weighed down by something invisible. I head to the coffee shop on the corner, the one Sasha and I used to go to. It’s become a habit, sitting here, replaying our conversations in my mind. Every corner of this place reminds me of her, and I sit at the table by the window where we used to sit, arguing aboutpoetry or laughing at something absurd. The seat across from me feels empty in a way that nothing can fill.

I can hear her voice, the way she’d tease me, always a little sharp, a little sweet. We’d debate everything—our favorite poets, the best cities in the world, whether iced coffee was superior to hot. She’d argue passionately, her eyes lighting up, and even when we disagreed, there was always that tension between us. The good kind. The kind that made me want to kiss her, just to stop her talking, just to feel her smile against my lips.

I take a sip of my coffee, but it doesn’t taste the same. Nothing does.

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