I walked her upstairs and unlocked her door with the key from the little front pocket of her purse. Walter stood by the window, leaning toward a streetlamp as if he had been waiting up to supervise. I brought Maya water, watched her drink it, and rescued her phone when she tried to set it inside the refrigerator. She informed me that phones got hot, which was technically true and not remotely useful to either of us.
When I finally reached her door, she called my name. I turned back and found her sitting on the couch with the glass held carefully between both hands. “Don’t pretend I didn’t ask,” she said, with none of the teasing she usually used when something mattered. I promised I wouldn’t, and then I walked across the hall carrying the full weight of a promise I could no longer misunderstand.
I didn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. Every possible version of the morning played out against my ceiling, and in most of them I found a fresh way to lose her. At three, I considered making coffee; at four, I told myself an adult man could survive an honest conversation; at six, neither claim felt especially convincing. By eight, I had rehearsed everything except the possibility that she would come to me first.
