Page 70 of Letting Go

It’s that moment, when we’re still, caught between kiss and collapse, that I realize how much of myself I’ve been holding in. How long I’ve been waiting for someone who makes me feel safe and wanted. How long I’ve needed to feel like I could take up space and still be loved for it.

His hands slide down my back, fingers grazing skin, and I shiver. Not from the touch, but from what it means. Because it’s not just lust. It’s not even just chemistry. It’s recognition. Like his body and mine are having a conversation they’ve been rehearsing in dreams.

We fall back against the pillows together, breath tangled, lips searching. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just here. The quiet of the room wraps around us like a cocoon, dim light spilling through the curtains, dusting everything with a soft silver glow. His hand finds mine between the sheets, fingers brushing, then curling tight, like he's anchoring himself to me.

Each kiss is slow, deliberate, tasting of longing and relief. My mouth drifts across his jaw, down the curve of his neck, and I feel the way his breath hitches, the way his chest rises beneath mine. We don’t speak. There’s no need. Every sigh, every shiver is its own kind of language.

His hands trace the line of my back, a featherlight touch that makes my skin sing. When I move overhim, slow and deliberate, our foreheads touch and his eyes lock on mine, wide and vulnerable. Like he’s never seen me more clearly. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment.

I ride him slowly, rolling my hips in a rhythm that matches the low, steady beat of our hearts. The world fades into the hush of our breath, the creak of the bed, the occasional whisper of cotton as the sheets shift around us. And when he pulls me down to him, arms around my waist, it’s not just to feel. It’s to hold. To stay close. To be certain this is real.

Then, gently, he rolls us over, careful not to break our connection. I’m beneath him now, legs wrapped around his hips, the blanket a tangled halo around our bodies. He intertwines our fingers again, pressing them into the pillow above my head, and stares down at me with an intensity that takes my breath away. His hair falls over his forehead, and I brush it back without thinking, like I’ve done it a thousand times.

We make love slowly, reverently, like we’re rediscovering each other one heartbeat at a time. The air is thick with warmth and want and something softer, something like devotion. Each thrust is unhurried, deep, deliberate. My name leaves his lips in a whisper, and I answer with a sigh, arching into him, grounding myself in the heat of his skin, the pressure of his hands, the unflinching honesty in his eyes.

And when we finally come, it’s like something sacred, more breath than sound, more feeling than movement. A quiet, shared surrender.

After, he stays close, still inside me, his weight just enough to make me feel safe, held. The blanket slips further over us, and he tugs it up again, tucking us in.

I rest my head back against the pillow, feeling the weight of his head on my chest, and for the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t feel like I’m floating. I feel like I’m home.

We don’t talk about tomorrow. Or the risks. Or how complicated everything is.

Tonight isn’t for complications. It’s for this: tangled sheets, bare honesty, and the quiet promise of something we’re both terrified to want.

I don’t know where this is going. But I think, for the first time in a long time, I want to find out.

Chapter 26

Friday is Keira Day, which means I’ve officially entered my new phase as the parent-shaped adult who Googles "therapists for gifted burnout teenagers."

I found Dr. Landry online; five stars, calming presence, specializes in “identity confusion in former golden children,” which is maybe the most horrifyingly accurate phrase I’ve ever read. I booked her instantly and paid the extra fee, for a session today. Guilt clickedsubmiton my behalf.

She greets us in the waiting room looking exactly like someone who knits sweaters for stray cats and smells like chamomile tea. I instantly want her to adopt me.

“Give us an hour,” she says gently, ushering Keira inside like they’re about to enter a sanctuary, not unpack nineteen years of suppressed anxiety.

I’m left alone with my spiralling thoughts, my buzzing phone, and an hour to kill. Which is how I end up staring at a “For Lease” sign across the courtyard like it’s a spiritual omen. I mean, what’s more symbolic than real estate? New space. New life. A clean toilet that doesn’t have his toothbrush near it.

I wander over like I'm in a dream, or a really chaotic indie film where the main character keeps sayingthis wasn’t the planand then makes an impulsive life choice anyway.

The realtor’s already showing it to someone else, so I lurk awkwardly in the reception until they come down.Security is good here; they won’t even tell me the Wi-Fi password.

A man in a bedazzled blazer steps out of the elevator with a couple. Once they’re gone, he waves me in like I’m next in line for a roller coaster I didn’t realize was going to change my entire life.

It’s on the twelfth floor. There’s a weird little jolt in my stomach as we step into the elevator, either fear of heights or the sudden realization that I might actually be doing this.

The apartment? Stunning. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. The kitchen is a little small, but for Keira and me, it’ll do. Sunlight floods the space like it’s auditioning for a rom-com. There’s a balcony, and when I step out, wind rushes over my skin.

He starts giving me the whole pitch; schools, commute, families in the building; and I laugh, a little too loud, and say, “Oh no, the only kids I have are covered in fur and emotionally unstable.”

To his credit, the realtor doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts gears like a pro. Starts talking about dog parks, pet deposits, how the elevator’s big enough for either a stroller or a golden retriever. I almost like him for it. Almost want to offer him a juice box and sayyou’re doing amazing, sweetie.

I nod along, making all the right noises, already assigning rooms in my head. Master for me. The second bedroom for Keira. Because yes, apparently, I’ve evolved past the emotionally constipated stage oflow-key resenting her and am now seeing the world through her eyes, and wow. It’s bleak.

It’s wild how once you crack open someone else’s perspective, your entire history starts rearranging itself like it’s trying on new clothes. Suddenly, things I thought were facts start to look more like… stories. My stories. Not hers.

Growing up, my parents let me do whatever I wanted, as long as I paid for it myself and arranged transport. You want to do karate? Great, get a job. Piano lessons? Better ask your grandparents. I used to think that meant they didn’t care. But Keira? They micromanaged her into oblivion. Everything was a pros and cons list, a family debate, an agenda item on a PowerPoint slide calledShaping the Perfect Daughter.

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