Ch. 3: What She Didn't Say

If someone had told her a year ago that she would be standing here, she would have laughed.

Sophia crossed the room slowly, aware of every step, of the way she was watching without seeming to. For a heartbeat the careful distance between them thinned to nothing at all. "You shouldn't have come," she said, and the words landed softer than they were meant to.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, and the words landed softer than they were meant to. She remembered the first time, and the last, and all the ordinary days in between that had somehow mattered more. She remembered the first time, and the last, and all the ordinary days in between that had somehow mattered more.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, and the words landed softer than they were meant to. Money could buy a great many things, she had learned, but never the one thing that was wanted most.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, and the words landed softer than they were meant to. Sophia crossed the room slowly, aware of every step, of the way she was watching without seeming to.

He had built his whole life on being certain. She had a way of making certainty feel like a cage.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Sophia said. "I'm asking you to listen." Sophia crossed the room slowly, aware of every step, of the way she was watching without seeming to. She remembered the first time, and the last, and all the ordinary days in between that had somehow mattered more.

Whatever came next, there would be no pretending it had not begun.