His eyes found me. Then the charging cable in my hand. Then the open suitcase at my feet. Then the pile of clothes on the floor he'd stepped on coming in.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The night after the rain was so quiet I could hear every breath he took—heavy, ragged, one after another.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
His voice was raw. Scraped down to nothing.
I didn't answer. I dropped the cable into the suitcase, stood up, walked to the closet, and kept pulling things out.
He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist.
His hand was cold. Wet. His fingertips were shaking.
"I asked you what you're doing."
I looked down at his hand.
That hand. I'd held it a thousand times. Crossing the street. Tucked into his coat pocket in winter. Draped over my waist while we slept.
I knew every line on that palm, every degree of its warmth, the shape of every knuckle.
But now, with his fingers clamped around my wrist, it felt like a stranger's hand.
"Let go," I said.
He didn't. He squeezed tighter.
"Look at me."
I didn't move.
"I said look at me."
I raised my head.