Page 89 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
A cold wave washed over me, from my scalp down to my feet. My hand stayed locked on the doorknob.
I didn't move. I couldn't. I just stared, seeing two losses superimposed on that cheap cardboard. The grocery bag slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.
The rehearsed lines were gone. There was only the silence, and the proof that it was ending. Again.
And then I saw her.
Through the sliding glass door, silhouetted against the fading city light. She was sitting in the chair. Her chair. The one I’d bought for her after she’d asked about the balcony, imagining mornings with coffee, her sitting right there, with me.
Claire was curled in her chair, her knees pulled to her chest. The evening breeze lifted a few strands of her hair across her cheek, but she didn’t brush them away. She just watched the city, her hand resting absently on her knee, her expression soft and miles away. The last of the sun caught in her hair, turning it to gold.
A dull ache spread through my chest. It was the perfect image of her, backlit by the sun, hair moving in the wind. The last perfect moment before it all ended. The sight hit me like a punch to the gut.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t let this be the end. Not without a fight.
I forced my hand to let go of the doorknob. My feet carried me forward, across the room, toward the glass. Toward her.
The slider groaned softly as I opened it. Claire turned, a slight jump in her shoulders betraying her surprise.
“Oh! You’re home.” She recovered quickly, gesturing to the chair she was sitting on. “I, uh… This second chair just appeared? I don’t know when it was delivered.”
Her words came out in a rushed, flustered tumble. I leaned against the doorframe, my hands finding their way into my pockets.
I stepped onto the balcony.
“I ordered it,” I said quietly. “For you. When you first moved in.”
Her breath caught, just a tiny, sharp inhale. Her eyes, which had been wide with surprise, now softened, searching my face. Her shoulders dropped. After a heartbeat, she gestured to the empty chair beside her.
I hesitated for a beat, my gaze dropping from her to the chair. My hand closed around the frame of the chair and pulled it closer to her, positioning it so we were directly face-to-face. Then I sat down. I met her gaze. “I’m sorry it took so long to come.”
We just stared at each other. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. My gaze cut away from hers, to the boxes stacked by the wall. Proof. My hand gripped the armrest as I gestured roughly in their direction.
“You’re leaving.”
Not the words I practiced. Just the cold, hard facts. A sick, hollow feeling spread under my ribs. I was already missing her. And it was my own fault.
I hadn’t told her anything.
I never told her that the best part of my morning was that first glimpse of her, sleepy, barefoot, in desperate search of coffee.
I never told her how much more I enjoyed cooking now that I had someone to share a meal with. Even if that someone rolled her eyes at my fresh basil obsession.
I never told her I found her microwave efficiency theory endearing.
I didn’t say any of it.
Because I was scared.
To feel again.
To care.
To lose.
And now I was watching the best thing that’s happened to me in ten years pack her bags.
She winced. Her gaze dropped to her hands. Her fingers were nervously picking at a loose thread on the cuff of her sleeve.
