POV Owen
I know I’m hurting her. That’s the part I don’t get to debate with myself anymore. It’s obvious in the way Noelle watches me now—not suspicious, not accusatory, just attentive in a way that suggests she’s bracing for impact. I recognize the look.
I’ve seen it before, years ago, on faces that eventually stopped asking questions. I don’t want her to become one of those faces.
At breakfast, she moves around the kitchen with deliberate calm. Luna is babbling in her chair, delighted by the sound of her own voice. Noelle smiles at her, present, focused. When she turns to me, the smile fades just a fraction—not withdrawn, just adjusted.
“You didn’t sleep much,” she says.
I take a sip of coffee that tastes burnt and wrong. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“I know,” she says gently. “I’m asking whether you want to share any of it.”
There it is. The opening. The invitation. But I don’t take it.
“I don’t know how to put it into words yet,” I say.
She studies me for a moment. “You’ve been saying that for days.”
“I need time.”
“No,” she replies quietly. “You’re taking time.”
The distinction lands, sharp and precise. “I’m trying not to make things worse,” I say.
She exhales slowly. “By disappearing?”
“I’m still here.”
“Physically,” she says. “Yes.”
Luna bangs her spoon against the tray, demanding attention. Noelle turns back to her, breaking the moment before it can escalate.
I sit there, shame creeping up my spine, familiar and unwelcome. I’ve always known how to leave rooms without leaving buildings.
Later that afternoon, I find myself standing in the hallway, jacket in hand, unsure why I picked it up. Escape, maybe. Habit. The old instinct to move when things become emotionally complex.
Noelle appears behind me. “Where are you going?”
“I thought I’d take a walk,” I say.
“Do you want company?” she asks. The question feels heavier than it should.
“No,” I answer too quickly. Then, softer, “I just need to think.”
She nods, but her eyes darken. I flinch. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“You’re avoiding yourself,” she replies. “And I’m collateral.”
I don’t have an answer for that. I leave before the silence forces me to invent one.
Outside, the city presses in. Noise, motion, life continuing without regard for my internal stalemate. Desire pulls at me—raw, physical, uncomplicated. The urge to feel something without consequence, without introspection. Shame follows close behind, whispering that wanting anything at all is already a betrayal.
Fear anchors them both.
I think of Miranda’s voice, sharp and certain. You don’t offer safety. You offer intensity. I think of Noelle’s, steady and unyielding. Stop making me absorb consequences you won’t face.
I don’t know how to reconcile them. And a memory surfaces without warning.
Lucille, years ago, sitting across from me at a small table, hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white. I’d told her the truth—every cutting, unfiltered piece of it—because I believed honesty absolved me of responsibility.
“You don’t have to stay,” I’d said.
She looked at me like I’d just confirmed something she’d been afraid to name. “You say that like leaving is the weakness.”
I hadn’t understood then, but I understand now.
When I return home, it’s evening. The apartment smells like dinner. Noelle is at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back. Domestic. Real. Everything I built my life around stands right in front of me.
“You’re back,” she says without turning. “Did thinking help?”
I sit. “It made things louder.”
She joins me, folding her napkin carefully. “Do you want to tell me what’s loud?”
I stare at the plate. “I don’t know how to be two men at once.”
She considers that. “You don’t have to be.”
“That’s not how it feels,” I reply. “One version of me wants to step forward, take responsibility, be present. The other wants to retreat into something simpler. Quieter. Less exposed.”
“And which one are you feeding?” she asks. The question is calm. Ruthless.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I feel pulled apart.”
She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. “You’re not pulled apart. You’re standing still, but the conflict requires movement,” she says. “You’re avoiding movement because you’re afraid of choosing wrong.”
I nod slowly. “What if every choice costs someone?”
“Then you choose who you’re willing to disappoint,” she replies. “Including yourself.”
After dinner, we sit on the couch, space between us that feels intentional. She turns to me.
“Do you still want me?” she asks. The question catches me off guard.
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
“Then why does it feel like you’re holding back from me?” she presses. “Physically and emotionally.”
Desire flares hot and immediate, tangled with shame. “Because wanting you doesn’t feel clean right now.”
She frowns. “Explain.”
“I don’t know how to want you without feeling like I’m taking something I haven’t earned,” I say. “Like I’m hiding behind you from the mess I created.”
She studies me. “You don’t get absolution through distance.”
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t know how to cross the space without making it worse.”
She shifts closer, not touching me yet. “You don’t have to perform clarity. You just have to be honest.”
I laugh quietly. “That’s never been my problem.”
“No,” she agrees. “Your problem is what you do after.”
Another memory intrudes—Miranda, years ago, telling me she loved me because I never lied. Because I never softened reality to spare feelings. I’d mistaken that for virtue.
Noelle reaches out then, resting her hand over mine. The contact is tentative, deliberate.
“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” she says. “I’m asking you to stop disappearing.”
My throat tightens. “I’m afraid if I stay fully present, I’ll hurt you anyway.”
She meets my gaze. “You already are.” The honesty lands, heavy but grounding.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit.
“Then start smaller,” she says. “Start by staying in the room when things get uncomfortable.”
I nod, though the fear doesn’t recede.
That night, lying beside her, I don’t reach for her. Not because I don’t want to—but because I’m afraid of what my wanting means. She turns toward me anyway, resting her head lightly against my shoulder.
“Talk to me,” she murmurs.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
Sleep comes late and is fractured. Dreams pull me backward—faces from my past, women who mistook my intensity for love, who learned too late what it cost. I wake with my heart racing, guilt thick in my chest.
Morning light filters in, pale and unforgiving. Noelle is already awake, watching me with quiet patience.
“I’m still here,” she says softly. “But I won’t wait forever.”
I nod, unable to argue. Desire alone won’t save me, and shame won’t redeem me.
Fear won’t protect anyone. If I don’t learn how to move—how to choose presence over retreat—then I will lose her not because I am cruel, but because I am silent.