One of those notes included details about the explosion, the corruption, and my disappearance from public records.
“When I met you at the community center in Chicago, I recognized your voice from something she had written down, and I realized who you were,” he said.
I remembered that rainy day when I met him, thinking it was coincidence, but now it felt like something else entirely.
“You should have told me,” I said quietly.
“I know,” he replied.
“And when you started seeing again, you still chose to hide it,” I continued.
“I was afraid,” he admitted.
That answer felt too small for the damage it caused.
“Afraid of what,” I asked.
“Afraid that you would leave before I had a chance to show you how I feel about you,” he said honestly.
I turned away because I did not know how to process everything at once.
That night, I slept on the couch while he stayed in the bedroom, and the distance between us felt wider than the apartment itself.
The next morning, I packed a small bag and went to my mother’s apartment across the city.
She opened the door, looked at my face, then at the bag, and said, “That was fast, so tell me what happened.”