“No.”
That is the truth.
Life did not move.
It narrowed.
It became bills, quiet dinners, unpaid labor, careful words, and the slow erosion of your own name.
Adrian’s voice lowers. “Did he hurt you?”
You look at him quickly. “Not like that.”
He hears what you do not say.
Not with fists.
With shame.
With silence.
With money.
With comparison.
With another woman’s perfume on his collar and your work in his briefcase.
Adrian nods once, slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You laugh under your breath. “For what? You didn’t marry him.”
“No. But I wasn’t there.”
You look at him then.
“Neither was I.”
That sentence sits between you.
Because it is true.
For years, you were physically present in your own life and emotionally absent from yourself.
Adrian reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small leather wallet. From inside, he removes a folded piece of paper, worn soft at the edges.
Your breath catches.
He opens it carefully.
It is a photograph.
Two teenagers at a county fair.
