Chapter 13
Mirelle and I finally talked about us after a year.
Not before.
Lily asleep upstairs.
Two glasses of wine.
No masks.
She asked:
“If nobody had interfered, would you have stayed?”
Hard.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
Good answer.
At twenty-seven, I had been ambitious.
Cold.
Bad at tenderness.
Maybe I would have failed her.
Maybe not.
We could not build romance on imaginary versions of ourselves.
Then I asked:
“Do you still love me?”
She smiled sadly.
“Some part.”
Same.
We did not kiss.
May you like
That surprised me.
Maybe maturity is surviving a moment without converting feeling into decision.
